


Battle Scars

by kermitincarnate



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adulthood, Adults, Alternate Universe, Gen, my version of the adult timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 17:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 42,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermitincarnate/pseuds/kermitincarnate
Summary: My version of what happens when the Losers return to Derry as adults.This relies a little bit on information from the original novel... so if you haven't read it there might be a few things that are difficult to understand but nothing that will ruin the experience in my opinion.I wrote this to explore some of the characters and help with my own characterization skill since I'm severely lacking it.





	1. Chapter 1

He knew what year it was, obviously. It was 2010. He knew the month and the date, and, if he strained his neck hard enough and leaned back in his chair far enough, the time, if the clock in the recording office was right. Also, Mike, Bev, Bill, Ben, Eddie, and Stan all knew these things as well, albeit the time was destined to be different in their parts of the world. And over the past few months, the date had begun to mean so much more to him, but he couldn’t tell why. It was, for him, 3:46 in the afternoon. His Tuesday talk show had finished twenty-six minutes ago. He was interviewing some hot-shot actress, Audra Phillips, that had just starred in Attic Room, along with several other features.

Even now, twenty-six minutes  _ after _ his talk show with the woman, he was still internally letting her name babble through his mind like a brook over a stony river bed.

“Ah, who’m’I kiddin’? I only know that chick’s name from the flicks, no mo’ than that!” the man said to himself, although it was not his own Voice, it belonged to a fictitious individual called Colonel Campersand, but it seemed to flow out of the man’s mouth just as naturally as his own, God-given voice. 

_ Audra Phillips. I just damn-well  _ know  _ that I’ve heard that name before, though.  _ And he had. He didn’t know how, or why, but he felt connected to that name in a similar fashion to how he felt about his own name. It  _ wasn’t  _ just from the flicks.

The clock in the next room, the one that he would have to lean back, and stretch out to see, struck 3:47 and just as it did, his phone buzzed in his pocket, stopping his thoughts in their tracks. Pulling it out he saw the screen read what it did every Tuesday at 3:47,  _ C’mon boyo, you’ve got three minutes until the next segment, get ready ya lazy slob _ .  Sure, he knew it was a little too much for a basic alarm reminding him to do his own damn job, but he liked to keep his life light-hearted.

_ Goddamn that fucking name, man. _

He got up swiftly from his chair and grabbed his water bottle from the desk on the far wall; water nor food was allowed near the microphones.

His phone buzzed again.  _ Damn,  _ he thought.  _ Goddamn alarm. Fucking snooze. I’ll turn the fucker off, it’s not like I need it, the useless dimwi-- _

But what was on his phone screen was far from the usual alarm. It was a number he hadn’t ever seen before, calling him.

_ Calling me? Calling Rich? This Rich right here? Rich Tozier? _

Everybody that had his number knew that Rich Tozier was not to be called, the only the people that were allowed to call him was his parents and his doctor. His parents didn’t know how to text and his doctor scared him too much for him to set a text-only basis with the man.

Rich could talk for hours. He knew he could, and he had before, both being asked to, and purely out of habit. It scared him, but he would never admit that, sometimes his mouth ran too quickly and his mind didn’t even know what it was saying and then he almost always let something slip out, something ba--

He stopped thinking about it. Glancing quickly at his small orange Adderall container at his desk, he breathed in slowly, he was so used to being a 1000-Voiced goofball while talking into a microphone for a living that phoning with someone could get out of hand.

“Hi, yah, It’s Richard Tozier, can I help ya?” That wasn’t even his voice.  _ That wasn’t my fucking voice goddamn it. _

“Oh,” the voice on the other end seemed unaffected by the faux voice. “Yes, Richie, I know who you are.”

Rich, who had been pacing around the room, stopped dead in his tracks.  _ Richie, _

( _ trashmouth tozier back at it again, ladies and gents!) _

_ no one calls me that. _

“Hey, bud, you still there?” the voice spoke out.

“RICH!” this was a different voice, not from the phone, but from the doorway next to him.

“One second, please, sorry,” hushed Richie hurriedly. “Yeah, Elena?”

“You’re on in forty-five seconds, Rich, get off the goddamn phone, man.”

“Shit, yah.” That voice was normal Rich. “Be, ehh, be right ‘er, missus Ellie, ya beaut,” amended Hillbilly Billy from the very same mouth.

_ Richie,  _ he thought again.  _ No one has called me that since _

_ (the losers) _

_ I was a kid. I hate it. _

Suddenly he was filled with a mild sense of hatred towards the mystery man on the other side of the phone line. 

_ I fucking hate it! It’s goddamn fucking awful! _

“Look, bub, I don’t know who you are but I gotta g--”

“It’s Mike, Richie, Mike Hanlon, from De--”

“I gotta go, Mike, I’ve never heard that name anyway. And next time, bub,” this last part was no longer Rich Tozier’s voice, “text me, I don’t like phoning.” And suddenly, once he hung up on that stranger, the anger in his chest was gone. 

( _ poof!) _

And so he sat down to do the segment, it would be an hour long at most. 

But the entire time he was detached, separated from the banter coming from his work colleagues. A new name began to bounce and babble around in his mind.  _ Mike Hanlon.  _

He spent the entirety of the segment, between being called in to contribute some stupid voices here and there, trying to convince himself that that name meant nothing to him. But it was a fruitless effort. The name meant something to him, it sure as hell did. Just like the name Audra Phillips meant something to him. They lay dormant in his mind, small enough to not worry him, but heavy enough to aggravate him. Somehow the names not only meant something to him, despite barely knowing them, but he felt attached to them. 

Audra Phillips and Mike Hanlon.

The Mysterious Maiden and the Cryptic Caller. 

He chuckled to himself.  _ Sounds like the title of a Denbrough book. _

Something in his mind clicked at those words.

_ Holy fucking shi-- _


	2. Chapter 2

It was a single bag, hand luggage, it wasn’t big at all, in fact. But it took Ben three hours to make. He sighed a deep, heavy sigh, the kind of sigh a man lets out when he just remembers he still has one more thing to do that day before he can relax. 

Three hours, somehow. He knew why, though. He didn’t want to go.  _ Once I have my bag packed, it’s the last nail in the coffin.  _ Although he knew he had to go either way.

He had taken it out of his closet, it was right at the front, even in front of his shoes. He had  _ just  _ gotten back from the construction site of his new building in sunny Los Angeles last night, in fact, that suitcase was still full with dirty clothes. 

He emptied those out, baggy jeans, crumpled button-downs with faint stripes running their lengths, a couple rolled up ties in slightly different shades of dark-blue, and a blazer he brought just in case there was some important meeting he had to attend that he forgot about, he hadn’t worn it in the ten days he was there, but it was still 

( _ stained with blood like your clothes back then!) _

wrinkled. 

Then he filled it back with other variations of the same clothes. Some jeans, one pair of khakis, some button-downs with stripes down them, one tie (he didn’t think this was to be a formal occasion), and an extra pair of shoes to accompany the ones on his feet already. He even threw that un-ironed blazer in too, he didn’t know why, he was too accustomed to packing for business.

_ What am I  _ doing?  _ What is this? _

And so, after contemplating the danger of this endeavour for a little less than a second, he unpacked again. Throwing everything from the bag onto the unorganized shelves of his closet, he briskly left his room, leaving the open suitcase on his bed like a gaping maw.

He had been sitting on the couch for maybe twenty minutes, staring at the screen playing the news, but it seemed so distant.  _ He  _ seemed so distant. Dog-walkers and runners passed his large, front-facing bay window and saw a man who seemed pleasantly at rest. He had not sighed after realizing he still had 

_ (to kill a friendly clown!) _

something to do today, or that’s what these pedestrians thought. He was just a happy man in a happy house watching TV happily.

But he was not a happy man in a happy house watching TV happily.

He was a mortified man in a house, not designed by him, which he fucking hated, ignoring the TV because he was too busy trying to convince himself to not do something that was clearly a suicide mission, but he knew he was going to do it anyway. 

_ I have to. All those kids, we stood in a circle, we promised,  _ I  _ promised. Goddamnit, Ben, why the fuck did you promise. _

And it was with those words he peeled himself from the soft comfort of his couch. Sluggishly reaching for the remote to cut the news-lady off in the middle of her report.

_ “A deadly attack at a small-town high school reunion resulted in seven adult fatalities and an undetermined number of child fatalities, the killer has not been apprehended and--” _

_ (never will!) _

He climbed the stairs, which were in the worst place, right next to the kitchen, separating it from the dining room, and walked across the upper landing, which was too thin to be a useful space in the house, and into his room with the seemingly randomly-placed windows.

He shoved clothes into that gaping maw of his bag and later shut it with a newfound sense of conviction.

_ When I get back,  _ if  _ I get back, I guess, I’m selling this shithole of a house. I’ll buy one on the ocean, far away from here. It’ll have a staircase next to the mudroom, away from the rest of the house. It’ll have a landing big enough to put some chairs and a table there as a little reading corner. It will have some goddamn windows in the right goddamn places. _

Yes. It would. He could see it now in his mind’s eye.

Except it would be nowhere near the Pacific coast where he wanted it to be. It would, in fact, be closer to the Atlantic. Right in the lively center of Portland, Maine. Less than thirty miles from the childhood homes of the six people he was closest to. No they weren’t family. Or friends, really. They were just seven people tied together by two common things: their childhoods, and survival.


	3. Chapter 3

The plane ticket had flown out of her hands when she stepped off the bus. It was her fault, no doubt about it, for holding the ticket in her hands instead of folding it and putting in her pocket. But it was too meaningful

 

_ “I don't fucking care if you think it meant something, Bev. You made it when you were goddamn eleven fucking years old. No eleven year old makes good decisions!” _

 

for some reason to keep it hidden away. She wanted it in her hands, where she could feel it, and make sure it didn’t fall on the street on the walk to the bus stop, or stay behind on the seat of the bus after she had gotten up.

But still, however, she had lost it. Well, almost anyway. It flew out of her hands as the greedy spring-summer air snatched it from her hands, which were adorned with fingers carrying chipped, scratched, or even missing nails. 

 

_ She pushed it as hard as she could. It could have been fucking murder, she knew that. But if not him than it would surely have been her. And she had somewhere to be, he only had her. Her and her business and her and her money and her. But still the wardrobe fell under her will, taking two nails with it. _

 

She yelped embarrassingly and ran after it, catching up with the airplane ticket right before it flew into the road. Along the top it read simply, O’Hare International Airport.

She looked at the sign hanging comfortably above the sliding doors for confirmation.

O’Hare International Airport.

_ Yup,  _ she thought.  _ I’m here, at the airport, T-- He. He is at home, perfectly fine _

_ (hopefully or else WEE-WOO-WEE-WOO right for YOU!) _

_ probably watching Mad Men without me like always. _

Maybe she had convinced herself, most likely she had not. Tom, her husband, whose name she couldn’t even speak after what had happened, was definitely not watching Mad Men

 

_ “Yes I am fucking mad, Bev! You’re fucking leaving in the middle of the goddamn night. You’re fucking smoking in front of me like I say you can’t and now you’re leaving! You fucking threw a vase at me and knocked the wardrobe on me, you bitch, you fucking wh--” _

 

at home without her. He was most likely watching YouTube tutorials on how to bandage a deep cut, or pop in a dislocated shoulder. Or maybe one called ‘how to hunt down and murder your bitch of a wife after she leaves you for some other man, for some childhood love called

 

_ “Bill? Who the fuck is Bill? Bev, WHO THE FUCK IS BILL? Are you fucking him? You are aren’t you? You’re cheating on me with FUCKING Bill aren’t you? I’ll kill him, I swear to God I’ll fucking kill him you fucking wh--” _

 

Bill.’ Bill Denbrough. The name ran through her head, she hadn’t thought of that name since, since, since 

 

_ “Where the fuck is that place? Are you fibbin’ me, Bev? If you’re making up some fucking town just to get away from me then I’ll… I don’t even know what I’d do.” But Bev knew he did, he even saw his hands tighten around the belt which she knew all too well. _

 

well she didn’t even know since when. Since a very long time ago. Just under twenty-seven years, she reckoned. And twenty-seven years was a long time indeed. 

Instead of thinking of all those years, and all the lost opportunities, and all the gained ones, and all the money, the business, and Tom, she walked right into the O’Hare international Airport, passing a poster advertising her very own fashion line (without even noticing it).

She rubbed uncomfortably at the bruises concealed by her long-sleeved blouse from where leather had struck, limped awkwardly on the foot with which she had stepped on the broken perfume bottle that had previously struck her dear husband, and very consciously kept her hands clearly out of her eyesight where missing, scratched, and broken nails lay throbbing.

And still, somewhere in the weird folds of her brain, she missed Tom. She knew it was wrong, and that it was against all principles of self-respect, but she did. 

Why was it that instead of (hell, even on-top of) the lines of bruises on her arms, she still wanted the man who had caused them’s hands resting protectively over them. Shielding her from this world she was stepping in to.


	4. Chapter 4

He was on the plane as soon as he possibly could be. Racing through security just in time for the gate to open, then he darted through that. When he got to his seat he pulled out the disinfectant wipes from his airplane-survival bag and wiped down  _ everything _ .

The first victim was the seat. The part your ass goes on, the part your back rests on, and the part your head pushes back on during take-off. Then, with somehow greater care and ernest, he wiped the handrests, two wipes per handrest, just to be certain. He pulled a latex glove on and took a wipe down the magazine-pouch, getting everything down there. 

Then he sat on the seat and measured, with his eyes, where his head would rest on the wall of the plane when he dozed off. He wiped a good two square feet where he thought it would be. But even then, he didn’t feel too good about the situation. So he got up again, and wiped the rest of the wall on the side of his seat.  _ All of it _ . 

Sure he looked idiotic to the people across the aisle (he had bought the seat next to him too so at least he wouldn’t disturb them, he knew it was rude and inconsiderate to do so, but Eddie Kaspbrak just  _ knew  _ he was going to be a horrible flyer today, given the destination).

Once he had gotten comfortable in his remarkably bacteria-free seat, he pulled out a book from his bag and began to read. He began to focus on it instead of the flight.

It didn’t last long.

_ It’s okay, Eddie. Only 1 in 29.4 million flights crash worldwide. And even then, the survival rate of passengers is 24%. That’s so much. That’s so much. That’s _

_ (so little, and it’s even littler for you, Eds!) _

_ so much. This flight is going to be  _

_ (a crisis, a bloody, fiery crisis) _

_ easy-flying. _

He shoved the book back in his bag, he had bought it at the airport, at a Duty Free. It was called ‘A Quarter of Smarts’ by Bill Denbrough.

He had read the first ten pages. So far two people had died. One was killed by a serial killer two pages in, the other died during sex with a prostitute, fourteen out of fourteen of his lines of dialogue included the word ‘fuck.’ Six of them included the word ‘shit.’ Only one of them had the word ‘the.’

_ What are you  _ doing _ , Big Bill? _

He knew who Bill Denbrough was. No, not the author Bill Denbrough, the  _ old friend  _ Bill Denbrough. At first, when this new author appeared on the shelves of every Barnes and Nobles in the country, he thought nothing of it. Sure, the name seemed familiar, but the first name is  _ Bill _ and the surname is  _ Denbrough _ , they’re not necessarily uncommon or unique names.

Then it had clicked when he browsed through one, his fourth book, ‘Black Rapids,’ which had become all the rage in the literary community, and the dedication was to the losers all around the world.

He had gasped right there in the middle of the bookstore.

But he hadn’t bought it.

Much less read it. 

In fact, these ten pages of ‘A Quarter of Smarts’ was the most he had every read of a Denbrough book.  _ It’s not too bad, I guess. _

It wasn’t bad at all really. All of Denbrough’s books weren’t bad. They were same-y though, Eddie knew this, no one else did.

Everyone praised Denbrough for being a sort of advocate for childhood hardship. All of his books focused around a group of kids and usually some sort of killer. Critics explained he was most likely influenced by movies like Stand by Me or the Goonies, the classic children’s tales. But Eddie, and six other people knew what the real 

_ (horror!) _

inspiration behind his stories was.

It was raining when he had taken off, almost an hour ago, but now, high above the clouds like some sort of mechanical angel with stiff aluminum wings and a chassis for a body, it was pleasant. Down below Eddie saw the rolling hills of cotton balls and sheep blanketing him from the world.

He thought about how somewhere down there, down there on the crust of the earth was his beautiful Myra. He had left her in hysterics, he knew that, she knew that, the neighbors five doors down probably knew that.

They had shouted sure, well, Eddie had shouted, Myra was always loud, just like his mother had been. Myra worried over him, as did his mother years back, about the safety of this trip he was going on. She had forced him to take  _ all  _ of the pills in the house, similarly to how his mother never let him out of her sight unless he was stocked up on drugs, even the extra ones.  _ Even the fucking pills under the sink, the ones the light never fucking even shines on. _

But his thoughts on his moth--  _ Myra _ . His thoughts on his  _ Myra _ were cut short by first an attention-grabbing  _ beep!  _ before the captain's voice

_ (cried out in terror, “we’re going down! We’re going down!) _

calmly alerted the passengers that Bangor, Maine was approaching and that their descent would begin promptly.

And promptly it was.

Soon that mechanical angle, that metallic valkyrie, slipped through the clouds like she was delivering Eddie Kaspbrak to Valhalla, where he would dine with Gods.

What he didn’t know is the next night he would simply dine on take-out chinese with some old pals he used to chum with. And slowly, those hazy memories of them that laid unperturbed in his mind would materialize again. Richie’s mess of curly hair, Bev’s intoxicating green eyes, Mike’s stern, but extremely amiable demeanor, would all rush back to him like the water on the other side of a dam he had once built with those chummy old pals years and years and years ago. Twenty-six, that was how many years ago it was.

Twenty-six years ago, almost to the date, in fact.

And then the plane landed.

He was here.

Valhalla.

The place where he came to die.


	5. Chapter 5

_ It’s regular ground. It’s the same ground that’s in England. Just because it belongs to Bangor International Airport doesn’t mean it’s evil. _

Sure. But fifty miles from there was a place where the ground belonged not to Bangor International Airport, but to a little place he called

_ (the circus!) _

his hometown. And that place sure was evil. The ground there was stained with blood. Pure blood. Kid’s blood. Innocent blood.

It was stained, in some places, with his very own blood. And not just from when he had fallen on the asphalt the first time he rode  _ Silver _ , or the numerous times after that that he had thrown him off and scraped his knees. Not from the first time his father had taught him to shave and he cut his cheek, the blood of which he washed nonchalantly down the drain. Not even from when Henry Bowers (the name ran a chill through his body, ending with sparks on his fingertips) threw a rock straight at his face during the famous rock fight and gashed his cheek right open. No, not from any of those times. 

But from the other time.

No, not even  _ that  _ time, where they fought for their lives, and bled for them, too.

But the time after that. And now, as Bill thought about it long and hard after he yielded a cab and spoke the faithful name of that terrible place (the first time that name had passed his lips in well over twenty years), he realized,  _ that  _ was truly the last time he had bled when he lived there.

_ That  _ time.

With the Coke bottle shard they found at the banks of the river.

And how it stung their hands.

He looked down to where it had stung, a scar laced each palm like riverbeds.

_ That  _ time. Where they had made the promise, the vow, the oath,

And somehow, his literary mind came to realize, that promise was more damning than the relentless bloodlust of that fucking  _ thing.  _

That promise was scarier to him than the  _ thing  _ the promise regarded.

“Mind if we go a slightly longer way to avoid traffic, sir?” the cabbie asked calmly.  _ Cabbie,  _ thought Bill.  _ I’m becoming more British every day I live there. _

“Yes. That’s fine. In truth, I don’t really even want to get th-there--” he stopped immediately.  _ What the fuck was that? _

“Well, that’s none of my business, sir. Just gotta do what you tell me. You still want me to drive ya there, right, sir?”

_ Was that a fucking stutter? _

“Oh yes, please. I have to get th-there, as much as I d-don’t want to.”

_ It was, too. Damn-fucking right it was. I haven’t stuttered _

_ (he thrusts) _

_ since i was a teen. That was fucking ages _

_ (his fists against) _

_ ago, too.  _

“You okay, sir? You look a li’l sick back there. Could I get you some water or a bag maybe, sir? Maybe I could pull over since

_ (the posts and still) _

you’re not looking to hot and my dad would kill me if I let some guy-- some sir, sorry-- get puke all over the seats… sir.”

“No, s-sorry, kid. I promise I won’t puke. I’d rather 

_ (insists he sees) _

puke in my own j-j-jacket p-pocket than dirty another fella’s car.”

“Thanks, sir. You sure you’re okay though? I really do have some water, I haven’t drank from the bottle yet, sir.”

“No thanks, kid. It’s just that coming back here is making me remember

_ (the ghosts) _

some th-things that I don’t like too much.”

“Oh, sorry, sir. I know that feeling. You think the radio would help? I’ve got six channels on this baby, sir,” the young man said, patting the dashboard of his car as if it was some great trophy. 

“Yes. I think it would. Maybe just keep it l-low for me, would ya, fella?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Music flooded the car suddenly. The kid turned the volume dial down, quickly turning down the blaring music with a quick ‘shit.’ He froze for a millisecond, realizing he had not only accidentally jump-scared a man who, in the young man’s eyes, was probably sixty-something with potential heart problems, but also cussed in front of him.

“Sorry, sir,” he wheezed, in a defeated tone.

“You’re good, kid, I do it all the time, scares the l-living cripes out of me.” Bill knew he wasn’t doing any good trying to convince the kid he was young with the language he was using. “You don’t mind if I make a quick call, do you?” he asked the cabbie, who made eye contact with him through the rear-view mirror, like he had everytime he had talked to Bill, and let out a slightly more confident “Absolutely not, sir!”

Bill had done good getting a world-wide cellular plan with all the traveling he did, although he didn’t use his phone too often.

It rang only once, not even once, in all honesty, before the call was picked up speedily by another man.

“Hello…?”

“Hey, it’s--”

“Bill, is that you?”

“Yes, it is!”

“Great, I  _ did  _ put the right number in my phonebook.”

“Phonebook!” retorted Bill. “The M-Mike Huh-Hanlon  _ I  _ knew would never have a phonebook!”

“I do now, I’ve had my eye on all of you guys for the past couple years, making sure I could call you all up if… if…”

“I-It started?”

“Yeah. If I needed to.” After this there was a natural silence, no dialogue between the two could have masked or diverted attention from the emotions they both were feeling, the emotions that demanded a silent moment of blank thought.

“What was it you wanted, Big Bill?” Mike asked, coolly, as if Bill had never gone by anything else in his life. Like Big Bill was his true title all along.

“Just wondering where I should b-book into when I get there. Is the Holiday Inn still the n-nicest place around?”

“I… um… I was actually thinking all of us could stay at my place.”

“At y-your place?” Bill inquired, trying to sound as casual as possible. Trying to act as if he regarded the prospect of staying with his six other elementary school pals, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly twenty-seven years, with anything put trepidation.

“Yeah, I don’t know, Bill. I just have this… this  _ feeling _ . A feeling that we have to be close, like we were back then, in ‘84. Remember how we were always together, Bill?”

“Yes, I remember,” he replied reflectively; Mike thought the voice was solemn, distant. “Well, I’m a few minutes outside of the town line, now. Where you living these d-d-days?”

“Not where I used to,” Mike chuckled in response. “You remember that big yellow house on Jackson? The one where that old man lived that was always washing down his ‘66 Shelby? The one we always talked about stealing in the middle of the night when that old man died?”

“Yes!” Bill exclaimed, a little too loudly. The cabbie in front of him flinched at the sudden rise in volume. “Yes, I do!” A grin crept wickedly up his mouth.

“Well, turns out I did end up taking house, and the c--.”

“ _ What?” _

“Yeah,” Mike let out a breathy chuckle before continuing. “That guy bit the dust five or six years after you left. His house sat there for another five or six, by then I had just sold my daddy’s farm. I bought the house, I don’t know why. It was big and the amount of time it had been empty meant it was super cheap. No one else wanted it because it was in a rough shape.”

“The house on Jackson,” Bill repeated with a grin, shaking his head in satirical disbelief. 

“Got a great price, too. It has three rooms in the actual house, one in the apartment above the garage, and I turned the old barn into a guest-house.”

“Five rooms. Seven people,” Bill pondered, as if he was alerting Mike of how that math didn’t work out. But Mike knew.

“I’ve got a couch too, don’t worry. And… And--”

“W-What’s wrong?”

“Um… It’s Stan.”

“What? What’s wrong with Stan?”  
“I called him, like I called you and all the others, I said the same things.” Mike breathed in deeply and breathed out for hours and hours, it seemed to Bill. “He barely spoke on the phone, I’m pretty sure if I was right next to him I wouldn’t’ve even seen him nod along to what I was saying.”

“So?” Bill asked, rushed and worried. He knew where this was going. If Stan had grown up to be like he was as a child… then there’s no way he wouldn’t of had major qualms about returning.

“Well, he told me he’d be here and hung up right then, no more words came through that phone. But I’ll tell you one thing, Big Bill: he didn’t sound too certain when he told me he’d come.”

“I see.”

And  _ this  _ silence was much graver, much more serious, and much more fatal than the previous. This silence was not necessary, neither Mike nor Bill wanted it to be there. In that moment, neither felt grief, oddly, although they both knew they would later, when the news really registered. Instead they felt regret. Regret for calling, regret for picking up, regret for asking anything, and regret for answering. 

Finally, the silence was wished away.

“The Holiday Inn used to be the best. But a few years ago they put up a Marriott across from the new shopping complex on Mall Street, I haven’t stayed there ever, but people say it’s nice.” Silence. “It’s got a pool and a gym.”

“Okay. Thanks, M-Mike.”

“Yeah, no problem, Big Bill.”

Bill had appreciated the final back-and-forth. He knew what Mike was doing. Mike knew that no one wanted to stay at his house. It wasn’t about him, Mike knew that. It wasn’t even about Old Man Steven’s house and the fact some of some of them would have to double-up.

It was the idea of revisiting their childhood bond that  _ really  _ scared them. 

Bill snapped out of it.

“Hey, bud,” he said, looking at the cabbie through the rear-view mirror. “How far?”

“We’re real close now, sir,” the kid responded. “We just passed the town line. We’re finally in 


	6. Chapter 6

...Derry....."


	7. Chapter 7

_ Woah, Derry’s changed _ was a thought every member of the Losers’ Club had as they passed through the town on the way to Mike’s house on Jackson Street.

Eddie Kaspbrak thought that exact thing when his cab drove passed the opening to his old street. Once that intersection had been dangerous, the only road that had ever given Billy Denbrough grief while riding carelessly and free on the back of  _ Silver _ , his loyal beast, but now it was bandaged by a striped crosswalk and stitched with both a stop sign and a ‘we ♡ our children please drive slowly’ sign.  _ My mother would be ecstatic _ , ran through Eddie’s mind. 

Not only that, but the sparse shrubbery and lonesome pine (which Eddie’s mother despised since it inhibited vision when pulling out of their street) that had once inhabited the t-intersection were replaced with season-appropriate flowers and pleasant plants which bobbed wistfully in the early-summer breeze.

_ Woah, Derry’s changed,  _ Eddie thought at this once-familiar sight tarnished by the the force of time ever-rolling.

Rich Tozier thought an identical thought, save it was in the foreign voice of the Irish Cop. This thought found its way into Rich’s mind after passing Memorial Park in his rental. The standpipe, which once so famously stood proud and dazzlingly-white (although Stanley Uris would have significantly more negative views on the structure left over from his childhood), now blended in somewhat with the natural foliage that surrounded it. It sat squat on the rounded-grass as it always had, but now with a brand-new, green paint job. ‘Derry Standpipe’ was written in blocky, professional letters, each as tall as he was, as if it wasn't obvious enough what it was.

And then a humbling thought darted into Rich’s mind.  _ These kids,  _ it began, slowly and maliciously.  _ These kids ‘ave no idea what  _ that  _ actually is. What lives innit. What is waiting to gettum.  _

“Gee whiz! Some thoughts jus’ ain’t meant to be thought’d, amirite?” he asked amiably to the empty passenger seat next to him. He realized, also, that that was probably the only Richie-brand humor that he had ever spoken to himself.

_ Wowz, Derry’s a-changed! _ He thought, not willing to waste breath on empty seats.

Beverly thought a different iteration of this comment, although it was practically the same, when she walked passed her old middle school which she had attended after the dreaded summer of ‘84. That building, which held no redeeming qualities in her mind, had stayed structurally sound enough these past twenty-six years, it would seem, to not warrant re-construction. The outside was still covered in sandy-colored bricks that looked like they’d been through a tornado. The double-doors that littered the school, it would seem, at random intervals, were once the deep green that flooded forests at the time of approaching twilight. Now they were  a bland shade of dark blue.

_ Just like Billy Denbrough’s eyes when he cried after sundown,  _ she thought forlornly as her feet pumped underneath her, on autopilot. That sight, of that deep, watered-down blue still, twenty-six years after she had last seen it under that context last, made her heart ache.

She remembered fleetingly, as if Derry was making her remember things that otherwise would never have had resurfaced, a moment when she passed Bill in the hallways in the very same school she was now walking past. 

The skin around his eyes were stained with blush-red and his eyes shimmered slightly under a thin layer of tears.  _ He had been crying.  _ She pulled him aside to a corner near the gym she knew was usually empty of people and asked what was wrong. He said nothing, just hugged her a deep, trusting hug and after a minute or maybe even two, let go of her whispering a brief “thank you,” unmarred by stutter.

The crackly voice over the loudspeaker later that day, announcing that today was the one-year anniversary of a young boy’s death a few grades under them, told her everything she needed to know about that encounter.

But now the doors were not blue, they were green, like her eyes. But this blue was far too dark to resemble her’s, even if she sobbed relentlessly under a bare, moon-less sky.

_ Woah, I’m sure glad Derry’s changed,  _ she thought solemnly in the wake of thoughts she was never supposed to have. 

Ben had also seen the doors on the middle school, and now, much more than it had back then, it annoyed the living crap out of him that they were all seemingly place willy-nilly.

_ What kind of sane-thinking architect…  _ he began, but he knew the thought was fruitless. 

But that wasn’t the place that truly stuck with Ben like previously-discarded gum now stubbornly stuck to the bottom of your shoe. It was the new shopping complex. Where the old Kitchener Ironworks once stood, and no longer did, now was erected a bustling building which looked as if it had been cobbled together haphazardly with oversized kiddie blocks. 

Ben was aware this is how malls were built, he had never designed one, personally, but was confident in the fact that his would most likely end up looking like this anyway.  _ You haf’ta leave space in there for all the different shops, and storage too. Then you have to have different halls and stuff, it can’t just be one way up and down, which means different sized additions to that base shape, and then--  _ yes, it was coming together in Ben’s mind now. 

Just like the crude design for his Lincoln Log houses appeared in his mind’s eye before he even laid his hands on the building material, it happened now with the Hanscom Mall.

_ I’d move that part over to the right a few hundred feet. And that… what is that? An Uno’s? Must be the food court. Well that can be moved over to where that atrium-looking area is up on the second floor. Jesus christ! Who has a food court on the first floor? Anyhow, that would leave more space for shops, or if you really wanted to you could extend into the parking lot and build a better, bigger atrium there. It’s not like this parking lot’s ever even been close to being filled up,  _ he assumed from the lack of parked cars on a Saturday in summer.

That’s when he realized too, that the road it was on was no longer Pasture Road, as it had been back in the day. It was now Mall Road, an unoriginal and boring name, if you asked him.

And, although slightly off put by the ‘ingenuity’ of whatever architect had built the mall as his bus passed now at a faster speed than before, breaking the traffic barrier, he remembered the old, poorly sight of the Kitchener Ironworks.

_ Yup, Derry’s changed, as it should, as anywhere should, I guess _ , was the thought that ran in his mind as his bus picked up speed down the road he once had known so well, that recognition now hopelessly lost.

Bill, however, thought nothing of the sort. Every time Bill was  _ forced  _ to speak to the cabbie, who, even he had to admit, was pleasant enough, he stuttered once or twice sentence, compared to his lack of stuttering over the past twenty years or so, it was abysmal. Not only that, but he was sweating like a clown in grease paint and a silk suit in the summertime, his hands were shaking like he was practicing his jazz-hands discreetly, and he refused to look up from his lap, where he had pulled a map of Derry up on his phone.

_ Huh, Mall Road. Wasn’t that Pasture Road back then? _

_ (yes it was! At the site of one of my greatest calamities!) _

But every so often he would catch a glimpse of something in his peripheral vision. He saw the some streets he recognized, some he didn't. He saw the Derry standpipe, now green, it would seem. He saw the beige block that was his old school. He also saw Paul Bunyan and his towering figure.  _ Little Derry’s guardian angel, ready to hack-and-slash any foes if they should dare attack our little Pleasantville.  _

He pondered oddly over what he had just said, remembering why he was here again.

_ Well he’s doing a right-shit of a job then. Right, Paul? Just stand there and look pretty, big guy, we’ll do all the work. _

But besides these things he saw, the ones that really caught his eye, everything else just blurred by, just as they had on  _ Silver’ _ s untamed back.

And so, ignorantly and stubbornly uneducated on the matter, Bill thought:  _ Well, Derry’s still Derry _ , as his cab took him to his destination; a long and anxiety-inducing journey it had been, he didn’t even want to think of the ungodly fee he’d have to pay the cabbie after they’d gotten to Jackson Street.


	8. Chapter 8

It was almost night.

In the air hung the last traces of light laboriously clinging to the sky.

Twilight. 

The house on Jackson Street, Bill reflected, had stayed almost the same. A long gravel driveway led straight (although with a slight right-curve) to a huge house. Well, when they were kids the house was huge, now it was normal-sized. It had a large wrap-around porch around the front and right side, two tired-looking brick chimneys, their tops blackened with soot and ash from long winters passed, and yes, it was still the same shade of yellow.

And that’s exactly how Bill felt right now.  _ Yellow _ .

_ The color of shame and anxiety.  _ Although he didn’t know why he felt the shame he did, as putrid and seemingly-displaced as it was, shame sat uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach, right above his pelvis. 

_ Creeak. Fwack.  _

The door opened with a creek that shouted ‘oil me,’ but banged suddenly on the wall so easily that it resonated ‘stop oiling me, please, I open too quickly!’

And suddenly there was five pairs of eyes on him.

He racked the room with his own.

Eddie was closest to him, sitting on a, what seemed to be, brand-new recliner chair, as if Mike drove to Ikea yesterday just so everybody would have a seat. Then Richie, perched like a bird on the edge of the couch that faced the television, on it played the local news muted. Next was Beverly, on the same couch as Richie, albeit looking more relaxed, she was leaning back, with her long legs stretched out in front of her as far as they could, Bill noticed in his subconscious that she was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans despite the summer heat. Ben sat on the floor next to the couch, his legs outstretched and leaning back on his hands casually. Finally was Mike, on the opposite side of the coffee table from Eddie, sitting on an armchair that he probably dragged from another room.

“Huh-Hello,” Bill croaked.  _ Fucking stutter, holy shit.  _

“Stuttering Bill!” Richie said. “Howay a, boy? Ah say… Ah say… how aw you, boy?”

And that was it, the nervousness that was squatting in Bill’s stomach like a troll under a bridge, melted right then and there, and its place was subsequently taken over with a warm feeling of comfort and recognition. It made him feel young again.

And so, naturally, everybody exploded in a fit of laughter.

Mike leaned back in his armchair, hands to his mouth. Bev bolted upright and then some, bending over her hands which grabbed her stomach as laughter poured from her mouth. Richie sat there, in the wake of his own joke and surprisingly exceptional Voice, and chuckled heartily, not because he was laughing at his own joke, but because everyone else was. It was a laugh of happiness, not necessarily humor. Ben fell on his back to the floor, his hands also raised to his mouth.

Eddie, also laughing like a maniac, made a first move. He covered his mouth and got up from his chair, collecting himself slightly before embracing Bill and a very familiar kind of hug.

“Bill, man. It’s so good to see you,” he said into his ear. In any other situation the hug would have constituted as too long, but not this one. Best friends. Reunited at last.

Eddie stepped out of the way and Bill pat him on the back like he used to do oh so long ago.

Richie jumped up eagerly and almost leaped at Bill. Once they too were in a hug, Richie exclaimed with an excited tone,

“Oy, Govna! The mun’s strong, ee is! Oh so strong!” and the laughing started all over again,

hands raced to clutch at stomachs and cover mouths.

Ben had gotten up and come around to Bill in that time. They briefly shook hands, but almost

instantly crashed into a hug instead. Holding tightly.

Beverly, who had to manoeuvre around the coffee table and now the forest of people around Bill, was beat by Mike.

At first Mike extended a business-man’s handshake towards Bill. Bill, slightly confused, extended one also, but right before their hands could meet and clasp, Mike cried out,

“Were you  _ really  _ just going to let  _ that  _ happen, Big Bill?” before wrapping his strong arms around Bill. Bill sighed with relief. 

And then Bev, who stood daintily from him, hair cascading down her back, looked at him expectantly. 

Before she could rush him like the others. He plopped himself on one knee and carefully grabbed Bev’s left hand. Pulling it towards him, he kissed the top sweetly, noticing the lack of a wedding band, and said to her, in his best suave voice,

“Madame Marsh, Bill Denbrough at thy service.”

Everyone stood for a second, slight confusion wavering through them, before, once again, erupting in the friendliest, most loving laughter they had ever been a part of.

Through that laughter Bill and Bev embraced tightly.

“I’ve missed you, Bev.”

“Me too, Bill. Me too.”

Once the initial commotion subsided, everyone returned to their seats, Bev and Richie both moved farther to the ends of the couch to make room for him in the middle. Sure it was a little tight, but he had never been more thankful to be this close to anyone before in his life.


	9. Chapter 9

The conversation had been the most pleasant he hade in ages, he thought has he laid awake in bed that night. The clock beside him read a weary 3:27.

It started out casual.

“So what are you guys all up to these days?” Ben asked. And so the recounting begun. It started with Bev.

“Well first, God bless her soul, my mother split from my father. It landed her in the hospital, yes, but that was the final time he laid hands on us, to this day. Then we moved to Chicago. After a few years she died and I was on my own. I worked for this company that designed these blouses, they weren’t anything special, but I was good at it.” She took a deep breath, shaky, but deep. “Then I met one of the execs. A year or two later I married him. He’s  _ wonderful _ , old Tom is. An absolutely  _ delight _ ful husband. He helped me build my own fashion business and that’s kind of where I’ve been since then.”

“A fashion business? More like an  _ empire,  _ Bev,” Mike added.

“Really?” Richie asked genuinely. “What’s it called?”

“Beverly Marsh Design,” she croaked in response. 

“What!” Bill yelped, recognizing the name instantly as the store that Audra used to shop at. “I’ve known that c-company for… for… years.” His voice got less and less confident as he went on. “How come I never recognized the name, Bev? Mike, why didn’t I recognize the name?” He sounded hurt, like a little kid who didn’t understand why granny wasn’t coming for Christmas this year.  _ Dead? What? _

“Well,” Mike started. “I think it’s because

( _ i didn’t want you to! I didn’t want you to! HAHAHA) _

you left Derry. All of you did. I guess the longer you’re away from here, where it all happened, the more you forget.”

There was a long and dreadful silence. But it wasn’t empty. There seemed to be a phantom cackle filling the room. 

“Beverly Marsh Designs,” Bill repeated, for some reason he felt pride, a weird version of pride, albeit, for Bev.

“I can’t believe you’re behind that company, Bev,” Richie said. “That’s huge.”

“It was mostly my husband Tom, he was _really_ behind it all.”

And everybody pretended that they believed her. They all heard the uncertainty in her voice, and where most people would have thought that the  _ really  _ was the source of the lie, the men in that room knew almost instantly that the  _ husband  _ was the real source.

“Well, he seems like a real great catch, Bev. I’m happy for you,” Mike said, despite the gut feeling that something was off with her remark.

“Yes, he is, he even got me to stop smoking,” she said, feigning confidence.

Beverly sat in the wake of her lies as Eddie recounted his life. He owned a cab company in New York, he didn’t drive anyone but the celebrities these days, but the company is still hugely popular. He also had a wife, Myra, back in the city. No one realized they did it, but they imagined her in their mind’s eye as Eddie’s late mother Sonia. They weren’t far off.

Beverly sat in the wake of her lies as Bill told them about him being an author and his books, it was a quick summary, everybody realized who he was when they saw his books at the Duty Free at the airport. Everyone also remembered the controversial (in the middle of the production of a movie adaptation of his book staring her) divorce between him and Audra Phillips, the beloved actress, he mentioned in passing. No one realized that  _ that  _ Bill Denbrough was  _ their  _ Bill Denbrough.

Beverly sat in the wake of her lies as Richie recounted his job as the most popular disc jockey in Los Angeles, everybody realized instantly. Beverly had listened to his voice and his Voices several times on many trips to one of her company’s offices in LA. Bill Denbrough also had on several drives through LA to get to Hollywood and the set of his next movie based on his most recent book. Ben stayed in LA for almost  _ a year  _ overseeing the construction of one of his buildings, his rental car’s channel dial left Richie’s channel maybe four or five times in total that year, only when he had others in the car with him. Mike just knew.

Beverly sat in the wake of her lies as Ben explained how he had designed his new building, the new BBC headquarters in London, but everybody knew. It was a vertical version of the glass tunnel that led from the adult to the children’s side of the library. Everybody gave a chuckle when they pretended to have not realized that three minutes earlier at the first mention of the BBC building.

Last was Mike, the tone of the conversation took a turn as Mike recounted his comparatively boring life.

“I stayed put. It got lonely over the years, sure. But it’s not like I can blame you guys for leaving; we were kids, we had parents, they governed our lives.” Everybody nodded in agreement, a sudden wave of guilt intoxicating their veins like chilled wine. “I get it. Derry was weird, strange, even the parents that didn’t know what  _ really  _ was going on knew that. So they left. But my daddy, mother, and I, we had our place. We had the farm, and it was still doing well, and they didn’t know how to do anything else. They were a farmer and a farmer’s wife. We stayed. As I grew up I guess I found new friends in books, as stupid as that seems. I pulled a Ben and started going to the library all too often--” everybody in the room gave a nervous chuckle. “--and soon Miss Davies, the woman that always read out loud to kids, remember her?” Everyone in the room nodded, they hadn’t remembered before, but now they did, clear as day. “She died, and the library administrator gave me her position, it payed enough for a fifteen year old, so I took it. And, well, I never left.”

“Now you’re head of the library,” Eddie mused.

“Yes,” Mike chuckled. “Everyone started dying around me, y’know, the whole  _ all librarians are old _ schpeel. And soon I was head administrator at twenty-five, never even went to college.”

They all knew what part of the story came next.

“I counted down the years devotedly. Y’see, I remembered, almost all of it. I stayed in Derry so I remembered.” The guilt settled in thicker, like millions of years of sediment.

“And once I saw it was starting again, I held out for so long, not wanting to call all of you up if it was a false alarm, but it was real, so I called you. Now we’re here.”

The conversation slowed and became almost laborious, its destination 

_ (chugga chugga chugga chugga CHOO CHOO) _

would be worse than 

_ (chugga chugga) _

the conversation leading up to it.

_ (chugga chugga) _

They had reached their destination.

_ (CHOO CHOO) _

“So,” started Eddie timidly, addressing the elephant in the room, or the lack of one. “Stan couldn’t make it?” A tension lifted off of the room, but it was replaced with a distant sense of loss.

Mike looked at Eddie and ruminated over his response. He got up suddenly and walked out of the room. The others looked at each other with worry and childhood guilt upon their faces. Mike returned moments later with a hulking journal, yellowing newspaper clippings, cut-out articles, and a selection of colored post-it notes jutted out of it. 

Silently, Mike sat back down in the armchair he had been sitting on for the past couple hours and opened the book to the last few pages.

“I started this journal when I began my preparation for this year, almost five years ago. I’ve kept a record of the cities you lived in and, if possible, your phone numbers. I did a lot of research on Derry and it’s history, especially around 27-year intervals, but that’s for another time.”

From the pages he had flipped to, he pulled a print-out from the local Atlanta news website, along its rows of text were a few highlighted sections. 

“A man was reported dead in the burrow of Atlanta that Stan lived--  _ lives  _ in. They aren’t releasing any information, but it’s a suspected suicide.”

Silence and a slew of metaphorical crickets flooded the room.

_ (creek creek) _

No one talked, everyone reflected, no one talked, everyone--

_ (creek creek) _

“But, was it Stanley?” Beverly asked cautiously, not wanting to accept the news.

“They didn’t… they didn’t say,” Mike repeated.

“I know, Mike, but, do  _ you  _ know? Do  _ you know  _ if it was Stan? Have you called him since? Made sure he’s okay? Mike, we--” Beverley started to gasp in the way that those about to cry do. Richie leaned over to comfort her, he handed her a tissue from the box on the table next to him, and then he wrapped a hand around her. Bill couldn’t help but feel a disconnected,  _ childhood  _ twang of jealousy.

Richie started crying too, he couldn’t help it.  _ The Richie I knew would cover up with a stupid Voice _ , thought Eddie, reaching a hand out to lay on Richie’s shoulder.

“I-- I--” Mike stuttered out, in a different situation, Bill would have told him that that was his thing, but he let it slide. Mike began to tear up too.

“We all grew up with Stan,” started Ben. He sounded more confident, although his voice still wavered with incoming grief. “We knew how much Stan didn’t want to do what we did back then. I don’t want to think about it but… but…” it became hard for Ben also. “Stan liked to keep things neat and clean, that was… that was his  _ thing _ , I guess.” He inhaled and exhaled one great shuddering breath, and yet his voice continued upwards from the floor where he sat. “What happened that day in ‘84, that wasn’t neat or clean and Stan didn’t like it, none of us did, but Stan especially. I don’t like to think about it, but back-then Stan wouldn’t have come back, he would hate himself for not coming back, but he would be  _ unable _ .” Another breath. “But-- but, we can’t lose hope.”

At this Beverly gave another yelp of grief and sorrow and crying and cried harder. Everyone else who was already crying did too. Everyone who wasn’t crying yet started to.

“We can’t lose hope…” Ben repeated, mostly to himself.

Bill snapped out of it and looked at the clock again, still 3:27.  _ Maybe I’ll go down and get some milk.  _


	10. Chapter 10

Bill had ended up in one of the two second-floor bedrooms. It was a large room that smelled of unused and rushed, monthly cleaning. It was a not-unpleasant, but not homely, smell of lemon-seed cleaning product and dusty curtains. But the curtains weren't dusty, they were clean, Mike had cleaned them.

The room had a small en-suite bathroom with a tub and shower two-in-one. There was two sets of towels (in case people had to double up, Bill assumed), a floor-mat, and Costco-brand guest shampoo and gel bottles.  _ Enough _ , thought Bill,  _ to last maybe three days. Maybe. _

But it was this room that Bill left, in just a pair of flannel pyjama pants and a plain white t-shirt. It was, after all, the beginning aisles of summer.

His room was at the end of one hallway that spanned from his door to Eddie’s, there was a small landing in between with a chair and a small table where the stairs rose up to meet it.

Now, basking in the shroud that was night, and illuminated by moonlight streaming through the landing window, the house was a watercolor painting. Everything was a shade of blue.

_ (navy blue, he’s coming) _

Bill headed towards that landing slowly, knowing very well from Mike’s tour just how old and creaky the floorboards were. He was

_ (dark cyan, he’s coming) _

barefoot, and his feet were a little cold, he’d admit. But it would only be a quick excursion. Just to fill a glass of milk, drink it, wash it and

_ (royal blue, he’s coming very soon) _

then come right back up. He’d slept fairly well that night, despite the depressing ending to the previous day. They had finished their sorrowful

_ (midnight blue, he’s coming) _

conversation and then it was non-verbally decided it was about time for bed. Mike had gotten up after a while of group grieving and said he was going to check in.  _ The house is all yours,  _ he had said, and then went on to explain

_ (cobalt blue, he’s coming very soon, very very soon) _

that there was two bedrooms on the second floor, one in the apartment over the garage ( _ the stairs were ‘round back and the key was under the doormat _ , he had said, and that the old barn was now a guesthouse, it had a bedroom and it’s own living room with a large couch. Two could

_ (indigo, he’s coming now) _

stay in there.

Bill was already almost at the bottom of the stairs, he had managed to not to step on a creaky floorboard yet. Before him was a hallway. Directly in front of him, was a small alcove. In it there was

_ (yale blue, he’s coming he’s almost here) _

a unit with some framed photographs on it. Bill couldn’t make them out in this light. On his left, all the way down the hallway was a door that led to Mike’s room, his own room. The room he lived in. Always. On his right was the kitchen, dining room, and living room, which they all had been 

_ (oxford blue, he’s coming) _

in before, drinking, telling stories, laughing…  _ crying _ . Down that hallway, in the living room, was the door he had come in through, the side door. Although that did not cross Bill’s mind as he took a right.

_ (persian blue, he’s coming oh what a mistake because he’s coming) _

Now that he was in this room by himself, he could finally take in what Mike’s home really looked like. This room was vaguely rectangular, on one end was the living room (with the side door that led into the driveway, at the top of which Ben slept soundly in the apartment over the garage), and at the other was the kitchen. In the 

_ (glaucous, heeee’s comiiing) _

middle of the two was a space filled out by the dining room table. It was reminiscent of an open floor-plan. 

Bill was now in the kitchen and he didn’t have to worry about floorboards creaking. The kitchen was tiled with tiles the color of ceramic, it wasn’t the most modern kitchen in the world, the counters were a speckled, beige granite and the overhead (and under-counter) cabinets were a dark wood streaked with darker age-lines. Bill turned

_ (viridian, he’s coming he’s coming he’s coming coming coming) _

to the fridge. The milk was 2%, but it would have to do (he liked whole milk). He filled it up, almost to the brim and

_ (carolina blue, he’s coming he’s here) _

and began to head to the dining room table, where he’d drink and, he thought, reflect on the day’s events. His first footfall on the dining room floor elicited a loud

_ Creeeeeeaak! _

_ (blue like your eyes, Bill, he’s a-coming, he came) _

The door swung open.

_ Creeak. Fwack. _

Cold air rushed the room like a quarterback. The world outside was also blue, deep hues of aqua and teal and dark green-blue. But, stark like a crow in a fleet of cardinals, stood a silhouette in the doorway. Black on blue.

_ (hahahahAHAHA) _

Bill gasped, milk dribbled down the side of his mouth like slobber. He couldn’t believe his eyes, something he always knew was coming deep, deep down, but could never remember the strict details of it. Of it. Of it.

The way the hair was, the clothes, and the eyes, oh they eyes. 

But he remembered now,  _ because I was reminded, in that instant I was reminded by the real-life, flesh-and-blood version _ , he supposed to himself later.

The way the hair was: curly, but not in an unruly way,  _ neat  _ and  _ clean _ . The way the clothes were: always  _ neat  _ and certainly almost always  _ clean _ , a long-sleeved, pale blue (although who knew what color it was in this watercolor bath of a night) button-down tucked into light chinos. The belt was black, so were the casual dress shoes. The way the eyes were: although Bill could not see them from across the room, he knew how they would be: brown and soulful.

“Stan,” he muttered in disbelief.

“Bill,” the figure replied. It swung the door behind him, this time more softly. “That door is a real bitch, you know? How often does Mike oil that thing?” Those were Bill’s thoughts exactly.

“Stan,” he reiterated, as if making sure Stan knew his own name. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” Stanley Uris, flesh and blood, replied. “I guess it is, weirdly.”

“You’re late,” Bill croaked out, not really knowing where these words were coming from.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re late; we already reunited, we talked.  _ A lot _ . And we ate pizza and then we… we… Stan, there’s no more rooms.”

“Bill, you’re making no sense.”

“There’s no more rooms for you!” Bill whisper-screamed, a genuine, childlike worry. “Stan, Mike only has two upstairs and one down here but that’s where he sleeps and then there’s Beverly and Richie who are in the guest house which used to be there barn because this is Old Man Steven’s house remember this house do you but there’s no more rooms so I don’t kn--”

“Bill,” Stan stopped Bill’s ramblings my clapping a hand over his mouth. “Man, just because you don’t stutter anymore doesn’t mean you have to talk so much.”

“Just because I…” Bill started. He was confused at first and then realized Stan was right. He hadn’t stuttered for years and years and years and then when Mike called him it started again. “Wait, I’m not stuttering.  _ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees ghosts _ . Stan! Stan I did it!”

Stan was mortally confused. He expected to get to the house and find it locked. He expected he would just pull his sweater from his bag and curl up on the front porch until morning. He didn’t want to wake anyone up; he didn’t want to be noticed. If the door was open, like it was, he was just going to curl up on the couch, start an alarm for before anyone woke up, and maybe cook breakfast for everyone.

Instead he came  _ home  _ to this: Bill downing milk like ambrosia alone on the dining room table in pitch black in his jammies. Stan couldn’t believe it, honestly. Not only that but Bill was speaking to him like a madman, as if he had seen

_ (the ghosts) _

a ghost.

“Bill, you wanna quiet down?”

“I’m not going to lie, Stan: not really.” Stan looked at him astonishedly. “We thought you were dead, Stan. We thought you were fucking  _ dead _ . We thought you got Mike’s call and killed yourself,  _ that’s  _ what we thought. We  _ didn’t  _ think you’d walk into the house at 3:30 in the morning all casual-like!”

Stan looked stunned, bewildered, flabbergasted. 

“You thought I was dead?” he asked cautiously, worried for the answer because, in all honesty, he had felt like a ghost

_ (the ghosts) _

walking through Derry center that night. At three in the morning. In the middle of a car-less road. “Bill why did you think I was… that I was  _ dead? _ ” He looked hurt personally, he looked emotionally  _ cut _ . “Just because I don’t show as early as all of you you think I’m--” but Bill’s hand was on his and Bill led him to the living room. Bill sat down in the armchair Mike had inhabited all that night and Stan sat on the edge of the couch that  _ he  _ had been on that night, so close together that their knees touched.

Bill picked up Mike’s stalker-journal from the coffee table and leafed through that back of it until he found the article. After he had handed it to Stan, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette lighter, not that he smoked (regularly), and lit the candle on the coffee table.

The light illuminated him and Stan, and Stan’s deep,  _ soulful  _ eyes.

It also illuminated Bill’s eyes and revealed a deep intimacy only Stan and Bev shared now: Bill’s eyes wetted by welled tears in soft darkness.  _ The color of the middle school’s doors _ , Bev would have thought.

Stan could now see the sheet that Bill had handed him and he inspected it dutifully. It was a print-out of a an article from the WSB-TV website. Bright yellow (although altered slightly by the earthen hues of the flickering flame) lines stretched its face, pointing out the important parts.  _ Potential suicide, man in his late thirties,  _ and the name of his own Atlanta burrow were among them.

Stan gasped. Not a frilly, eccentric, dramatic sigh, but a sigh of pure, genuine shock.

“That--” Stan tried to get out. “That’s… that’s…”

_ (the ghosts) _

It was awfully clear to Bill that Stan would not finish this sentence. He had learned from his stutter that it was hard to get a sentence out in the first place, but if your mind wasn’t dedicated to that sentence, it would never get out.

Bill slotted his knee between Stan’s so he could slide forward and embrace him, but Stan pushed him back. He wasn’t crying, he didn’t even seem to be all that sad.

“Bill,” he whispered. Bill expected some deep confession to fall from his lips, but instead came: “Don’t hug me, you’ll wrinkle my shirt. I only brought one.” Bill couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed and tried to stop himself until he realized Stan was laughing too, and that only made him laugh harder.

They simultaneously clamped their hands over each other's mouths, which made them laugh (now muffled) even harder. 

“Stan, Mike’s sleeping behind that door,” he said, giggling and pointing. Stan twisted his back to see the door and instantly began to laugh harder. He piled his hand on top of Bill’s over his own mouth, now convinced he would wake the entire street up.

Soon they stopped laughing, not all of a sudden, but gradually. 

Now they sat there in the wavering candlelight, knees together and hands resolved now to brushing together on their laps.

“I’ve never been more glad to see anyone in my life, I think,” breathed Bill.

“I’ve never been more glad to see a man drinking milk by himself in the middle of the night like a depressed Santa Claus.”

“Oh yeah? How often does that happen?”

“You’d be surprised what accountants get up to at night,” replied Stan with a wink.

This time no laughing came, there was a different vapor in the air now. Not laughing gas, no, what was that floating through the air like social poison?

_ (the ghosts) _

“Who was it, Stan?” A more sincere tone had crawled into his voice.

“Who was what, Big Bill?”

“The man that killed himself, Stan, why did you…?” Bill didn’t know whether to say laugh or cry, both seemed to happen at one point or the other.

“No one,” Stan replied unconvincingly. Bill didn’t buy it. He shot a comforting glance at Stan, whose face was tattooed by darting shadows puppeteered by the candle.

“It was-- it was--” he didn’t want to finish. “It was me, okay, Bill?”

Now it was Bill’s turn to gasp. He looked at Stan now with a sense of slight fear and apprehension.

“What? Waddya mean, Stan?”

“Well, it’s not  _ me _ , but it damn well could’ve been, y’know?” Stan’s eyes teared up, this time with real grief. “I thought about it, Bill. I really  _ fucking  _ did. I knew I had three options. I could come here and I would get-- I would get-- I’d get--”

“Yeah, I know. I know, Stan.” Bill knew, dirty and disheveled, two things Stan was not, But he never knew how to articulate his instinctual, almost primal opposition to it

“Or I could, you know,  _ not  _ go. And then I’d break the circle and you’d all-- all--” 

Bill nodded him along, signalling that he understood what he couldn’t say. It was funny, Bill was coaxing and encouraging an inarticulate Stan through things he couldn’t say, just like everybody he knew did to him as a young (and old) child.

“Or-- or I could--” Stan clutched his wrists protectively, shuddering and shivering and shedding tears. Bill began to slide towards him again, making for a hug before he pulled back, realizing  _ who  _ he was trying to hug.

He opted for something that risked wrinkling Stan’s shirt less. Something including less contact but somehow was much more intimate.

He grabbed Stan’s hands away from his own wrists and placed his hands over them. Stan gave out a deep sigh, Bill thought it sounded like a sigh of relief. Bill leaned forward and Stan did the same instinctually. 

They sat here, Bill’s hands over Stan’s wrists and foreheads against each other’s, both dropping tears onto their legs, arms, and the floor.

“Or what, Stan? What was it that you  _ could’ve  _ done, but didn’t, because you were too strong, too devoted, too loving?” Bill knew how to deal with someone who struggled to talk, he knew it was the opposite way that everyone in his life had dealt with  _ his _ inarticulacy. 

“Tell me, Stan.” He coaxed the words out, not interjecting like he had been before, but making Stan say the words, to get over this fear of saying them.

“Or I could-- could--  _ just off myself _ ,” he gasped. “And make the circle smaller.” He was shaking. “Not get-- not get-- dirty, but also not-- not get you guys killed.”

“But you didn’t, right, Stan?”

“No.”

“Feel my hands, my head, fell them and hear my voice, you’re here, with me, with  _ us _ .”

Stan nodded against Bill’s head.

Bill took a risk. 

He moved his hands up slowly, taking Stan’s shirt sleeves with them. He knew what he was going to find, and when he found those silvery lines, he pushed the sleeves back down. Bill was scared, but he couldn’t let Stan know that.

He moved his hands, then, from Stan’s and moved them to the sides of his head and whispered:

“C’mon, Stan. Let’s go to bed. You can bunk with me, for the night, at least, you can choose who you want to bunk with tomorrow.” Bill led Stan up the way he had come down just fifteen minutes earlier. Stan was slowly composing himself again, and Bill supplied him with some of his own clothes: an extra pair of pyjama pants and a spare t-shirt. Stan thanked him quietly and with that they went to sleep.

But before that, while Bill led Stan up to the second floor, he told Stan a little story.

“Let me tell you one of my stories, Stan. You were a little late getting here, your plane was delayed. When you got here you knocked on the door and I just happened to be getting some milk before bed, you hear that? So to not wake anyone up, I said you could bunk with me. That man that killed himself was just some random joe in your neighborhood, you barely knew him. Also, you have a pretty bad rash and don’t like to wear short sleeves, right, Stan? Here, take these things to sleep in. There. That’s the story, what I’ll tell, if you want to tell something different I will ride with it, but I’m great at keeping secrets.”

Bill had ended up in one of the two second-floor bedrooms. It was a large room that smelled of unused and rushed, monthly cleaning. It was a not-unpleasant, but not homely, smell of lemon-seed cleaning product and dusty curtains. But the curtains weren't dusty, they were clean, Mike had cleaned them.

The room had a small en-suite bathroom with a tub and shower two-in-one. There was two sets of towels (in case people had to double up, Bill assumed), a floor-mat, and Costco-brand guest shampoo and gel bottles.  _ Enough _ , thought Bill,  _ to last maybe three days. Maybe. _

But it was this room that Bill left, in just a pair of flannel pyjama pants and a plain white t-shirt. It was, after all, the beginning aisles of summer.

His room was at the end of one hallway that spanned from his door to Eddie’s, there was a small landing in between with a chair and a small table where the stairs rose up to meet it.

Now, basking in the shroud that was night, and illuminated by moonlight streaming through the landing window, the house was a watercolor painting. Everything was a shade of blue.

_ (navy blue, he’s coming) _

Bill headed towards that landing slowly, knowing very well from Mike’s tour just how old and creaky the floorboards were. He was

_ (dark cyan, he’s coming) _

barefoot, and his feet were a little cold, he’d admit. But it would only be a quick excursion. Just to fill a glass of milk, drink it, wash it and

_ (royal blue, he’s coming very soon) _

then come right back up. He’d slept fairly well that night, despite the depressing ending to the previous day. They had finished their sorrowful

_ (midnight blue, he’s coming) _

conversation and then it was non-verbally decided it was about time for bed. Mike had gotten up after a while of group grieving and said he was going to check in.  _ The house is all yours,  _ he had said, and then went on to explain

_ (cobalt blue, he’s coming very soon, very very soon) _

that there was two bedrooms on the second floor, one in the apartment over the garage ( _ the stairs were ‘round back and the key was under the doormat _ , he had said, and that the old barn was now a guesthouse, it had a bedroom and it’s own living room with a large couch. Two could

_ (indigo, he’s coming now) _

stay in there.

Bill was already almost at the bottom of the stairs, he had managed to not to step on a creaky floorboard yet. Before him was a hallway. Directly in front of him, was a small alcove. In it there was

_ (yale blue, he’s coming he’s almost here) _

a unit with some framed photographs on it. Bill couldn’t make them out in this light. On his left, all the way down the hallway was a door that led to Mike’s room, his own room. The room he lived in. Always. On his right was the kitchen, dining room, and living room, which they all had been 

_ (oxford blue, he’s coming) _

in before, drinking, telling stories, laughing…  _ crying _ . Down that hallway, in the living room, was the door he had come in through, the side door. Although that did not cross Bill’s mind as he took a right.

_ (persian blue, he’s coming oh what a mistake because he’s coming) _

Now that he was in this room by himself, he could finally take in what Mike’s home really looked like. This room was vaguely rectangular, on one end was the living room (with the side door that led into the driveway, at the top of which Ben slept soundly in the apartment over the garage), and at the other was the kitchen. In the 

_ (glaucous, heeee’s comiiing) _

middle of the two was a space filled out by the dining room table. It was reminiscent of an open floor-plan. 

Bill was now in the kitchen and he didn’t have to worry about floorboards creaking. The kitchen was tiled with tiles the color of ceramic, it wasn’t the most modern kitchen in the world, the counters were a speckled, beige granite and the overhead (and under-counter) cabinets were a dark wood streaked with darker age-lines. Bill turned

_ (viridian, he’s coming he’s coming he’s coming coming coming) _

to the fridge. The milk was 2%, but it would have to do (he liked whole milk). He filled it up, almost to the brim and

_ (carolina blue, he’s coming he’s here) _

and began to head to the dining room table, where he’d drink and, he thought, reflect on the day’s events. His first footfall on the dining room floor elicited a loud

_ Creeeeeeaak! _

_ (blue like your eyes, Bill, he’s a-coming, he came) _

The door swung open.

_ Creeak. Fwack. _

Cold air rushed the room like a quarterback. The world outside was also blue, deep hues of aqua and teal and dark green-blue. But, stark like a crow in a fleet of cardinals, stood a silhouette in the doorway. Black on blue.

_ (hahahahAHAHA) _

Bill gasped, milk dribbled down the side of his mouth like slobber. He couldn’t believe his eyes, something he always knew was coming deep, deep down, but could never remember the strict details of it. Of it. Of it.

The way the hair was, the clothes, and the eyes, oh they eyes. 

But he remembered now,  _ because I was reminded, in that instant I was reminded by the real-life, flesh-and-blood version _ , he supposed to himself later.

The way the hair was: curly, but not in an unruly way,  _ neat  _ and  _ clean _ . The way the clothes were: always  _ neat  _ and certainly almost always  _ clean _ , a long-sleeved, pale blue (although who knew what color it was in this watercolor bath of a night) button-down tucked into light chinos. The belt was black, so were the casual dress shoes. The way the eyes were: although Bill could not see them from across the room, he knew how they would be: brown and soulful.

“Stan,” he muttered in disbelief.

“Bill,” the figure replied. It swung the door behind him, this time more softly. “That door is a real bitch, you know? How often does Mike oil that thing?” Those were Bill’s thoughts exactly.

“Stan,” he reiterated, as if making sure Stan knew his own name. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” Stanley Uris, flesh and blood, replied. “I guess it is, weirdly.”

“You’re late,” Bill croaked out, not really knowing where these words were coming from.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re late; we already reunited, we talked.  _ A lot _ . And we ate pizza and then we… we… Stan, there’s no more rooms.”

“Bill, you’re making no sense.”

“There’s no more rooms for you!” Bill whisper-screamed, a genuine, childlike worry. “Stan, Mike only has two upstairs and one down here but that’s where he sleeps and then there’s Beverly and Richie who are in the guest house which used to be there barn because this is Old Man Steven’s house remember this house do you but there’s no more rooms so I don’t kn--”

“Bill,” Stan stopped Bill’s ramblings my clapping a hand over his mouth. “Man, just because you don’t stutter anymore doesn’t mean you have to talk so much.”

“Just because I…” Bill started. He was confused at first and then realized Stan was right. He hadn’t stuttered for years and years and years and then when Mike called him it started again. “Wait, I’m not stuttering.  _ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees ghosts _ . Stan! Stan I did it!”

Stan was mortally confused. He expected to get to the house and find it locked. He expected he would just pull his sweater from his bag and curl up on the front porch until morning. He didn’t want to wake anyone up; he didn’t want to be noticed. If the door was open, like it was, he was just going to curl up on the couch, start an alarm for before anyone woke up, and maybe cook breakfast for everyone.

Instead he came  _ home  _ to this: Bill downing milk like ambrosia alone on the dining room table in pitch black in his jammies. Stan couldn’t believe it, honestly. Not only that but Bill was speaking to him like a madman, as if he had seen

_ (the ghosts) _

a ghost.

“Bill, you wanna quiet down?”

“I’m not going to lie, Stan: not really.” Stan looked at him astonishedly. “We thought you were dead, Stan. We thought you were fucking  _ dead _ . We thought you got Mike’s call and killed yourself,  _ that’s  _ what we thought. We  _ didn’t  _ think you’d walk into the house at 3:30 in the morning all casual-like!”

Stan looked stunned, bewildered, flabbergasted. 

“You thought I was dead?” he asked cautiously, worried for the answer because, in all honesty, he had felt like a ghost

_ (the ghosts) _

walking through Derry center that night. At three in the morning. In the middle of a car-less road. “Bill why did you think I was… that I was  _ dead? _ ” He looked hurt personally, he looked emotionally  _ cut _ . “Just because I don’t show as early as all of you you think I’m--” but Bill’s hand was on his and Bill led him to the living room. Bill sat down in the armchair Mike had inhabited all that night and Stan sat on the edge of the couch that  _ he  _ had been on that night, so close together that their knees touched.

Bill picked up Mike’s stalker-journal from the coffee table and leafed through that back of it until he found the article. After he had handed it to Stan, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette lighter, not that he smoked (regularly), and lit the candle on the coffee table.

The light illuminated him and Stan, and Stan’s deep,  _ soulful  _ eyes.

It also illuminated Bill’s eyes and revealed a deep intimacy only Stan and Bev shared now: Bill’s eyes wetted by welled tears in soft darkness.  _ The color of the middle school’s doors _ , Bev would have thought.

Stan could now see the sheet that Bill had handed him and he inspected it dutifully. It was a print-out of a an article from the WSB-TV website. Bright yellow (although altered slightly by the earthen hues of the flickering flame) lines stretched its face, pointing out the important parts.  _ Potential suicide, man in his late thirties,  _ and the name of his own Atlanta burrow were among them.

Stan gasped. Not a frilly, eccentric, dramatic sigh, but a sigh of pure, genuine shock.

“That--” Stan tried to get out. “That’s… that’s…”

_ (the ghosts) _

It was awfully clear to Bill that Stan would not finish this sentence. He had learned from his stutter that it was hard to get a sentence out in the first place, but if your mind wasn’t dedicated to that sentence, it would never get out.

Bill slotted his knee between Stan’s so he could slide forward and embrace him, but Stan pushed him back. He wasn’t crying, he didn’t even seem to be all that sad.

“Bill,” he whispered. Bill expected some deep confession to fall from his lips, but instead came: “Don’t hug me, you’ll wrinkle my shirt. I only brought one.” Bill couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed and tried to stop himself until he realized Stan was laughing too, and that only made him laugh harder.

They simultaneously clamped their hands over each other's mouths, which made them laugh (now muffled) even harder. 

“Stan, Mike’s sleeping behind that door,” he said, giggling and pointing. Stan twisted his back to see the door and instantly began to laugh harder. He piled his hand on top of Bill’s over his own mouth, now convinced he would wake the entire street up.

Soon they stopped laughing, not all of a sudden, but gradually. 

Now they sat there in the wavering candlelight, knees together and hands resolved now to brushing together on their laps.

“I’ve never been more glad to see anyone in my life, I think,” breathed Bill.

“I’ve never been more glad to see a man drinking milk by himself in the middle of the night like a depressed Santa Claus.”

“Oh yeah? How often does that happen?”

“You’d be surprised what accountants get up to at night,” replied Stan with a wink.

This time no laughing came, there was a different vapor in the air now. Not laughing gas, no, what was that floating through the air like social poison?

_ (the ghosts) _

“Who was it, Stan?” A more sincere tone had crawled into his voice.

“Who was what, Big Bill?”

“The man that killed himself, Stan, why did you…?” Bill didn’t know whether to say laugh or cry, both seemed to happen at one point or the other.

“No one,” Stan replied unconvincingly. Bill didn’t buy it. He shot a comforting glance at Stan, whose face was tattooed by darting shadows puppeteered by the candle.

“It was-- it was--” he didn’t want to finish. “It was me, okay, Bill?”

Now it was Bill’s turn to gasp. He looked at Stan now with a sense of slight fear and apprehension.

“What? Waddya mean, Stan?”

“Well, it’s not  _ me _ , but it damn well could’ve been, y’know?” Stan’s eyes teared up, this time with real grief. “I thought about it, Bill. I really  _ fucking  _ did. I knew I had three options. I could come here and I would get-- I would get-- I’d get--”

“Yeah, I know. I know, Stan.” Bill knew, dirty and disheveled, two things Stan was not, But he never knew how to articulate his instinctual, almost primal opposition to it

“Or I could, you know,  _ not  _ go. And then I’d break the circle and you’d all-- all--” 

Bill nodded him along, signalling that he understood what he couldn’t say. It was funny, Bill was coaxing and encouraging an inarticulate Stan through things he couldn’t say, just like everybody he knew did to him as a young (and old) child.

“Or-- or I could--” Stan clutched his wrists protectively, shuddering and shivering and shedding tears. Bill began to slide towards him again, making for a hug before he pulled back, realizing  _ who  _ he was trying to hug.

He opted for something that risked wrinkling Stan’s shirt less. Something including less contact but somehow was much more intimate.

He grabbed Stan’s hands away from his own wrists and placed his hands over them. Stan gave out a deep sigh, Bill thought it sounded like a sigh of relief. Bill leaned forward and Stan did the same instinctually. 

They sat here, Bill’s hands over Stan’s wrists and foreheads against each other’s, both dropping tears onto their legs, arms, and the floor.

“Or what, Stan? What was it that you  _ could’ve  _ done, but didn’t, because you were too strong, too devoted, too loving?” Bill knew how to deal with someone who struggled to talk, he knew it was the opposite way that everyone in his life had dealt with  _ his _ inarticulacy. 

“Tell me, Stan.” He coaxed the words out, not interjecting like he had been before, but making Stan say the words, to get over this fear of saying them.

“Or I could-- could--  _ just off myself _ ,” he gasped. “And make the circle smaller.” He was shaking. “Not get-- not get-- dirty, but also not-- not get you guys killed.”

“But you didn’t, right, Stan?”

“No.”

“Feel my hands, my head, fell them and hear my voice, you’re here, with me, with  _ us _ .”

Stan nodded against Bill’s head.

Bill took a risk. 

He moved his hands up slowly, taking Stan’s shirt sleeves with them. He knew what he was going to find, and when he found those silvery lines, he pushed the sleeves back down. Bill was scared, but he couldn’t let Stan know that.

He moved his hands, then, from Stan’s and moved them to the sides of his head and whispered:

“C’mon, Stan. Let’s go to bed. You can bunk with me, for the night, at least, you can choose who you want to bunk with tomorrow.” Bill led Stan up the way he had come down just fifteen minutes earlier. Stan was slowly composing himself again, and Bill supplied him with some of his own clothes: an extra pair of pyjama pants and a spare t-shirt. Stan thanked him quietly and with that they went to sleep.

But before that, while Bill led Stan up to the second floor, he told Stan a little story.

“Let me tell you one of my stories, Stan. You were a little late getting here, your plane was delayed. When you got here you knocked on the door and I just happened to be getting some milk before bed, you hear that? So to not wake anyone up, I said you could bunk with me. That man that killed himself was just some random joe in your neighborhood, you barely knew him. Also, you have a pretty bad rash and don’t like to wear short sleeves, right, Stan? Here, take these things to sleep in. There. That’s the story, what I’ll tell, if you want to tell something different I will ride with it, but I’m great at keeping secrets.”


	11. Chapter 11

Night came and went.

Sunrise came and went.

Dawn came and went.

Mid-morning came and went.

Noon came, and, after a while, went.

“Morning,” Eddie said groggily, rubbing his eyes. It was directed at the room mostly, ‘morning’ being one of the introductions that was more habitual than necessary. Mike stood behind the breakfast counter in the kitchen making coffee like he did every morning, although usually around seven hours earlier. Beverly sat on one of the dining room chairs, a mug of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, scrolling through Twitter. She was in a long, jade-green robe that middle-aged woman usually walk around the house with in early the early morning. Mike wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants with the kind of slippers that were fuzzy on the inside.

“Hey, Eddie,” Mike greeted, setting the coffee pot down on the hot-plate. “Coffee?” He gestured at the pot next to him.

“In a few,” Eddie returned. “How’d you two sleep?” It was another one of those odd habitual morning rituals. 

_ (i slept like a dead man, eddie, but now I’m awake and so are you!) _

“Like a log,” Beverly described, looking up from her Twitter feed long enough to give Eddie a friendly smile and a “You?”

“Yeah, like a log, or a dead person,” Eddie answered.

And so the morning ritual was complete, but would repeat several times as more men walked down the stairs or through the door.

“How was sharing a house with Richie, Bev?” Mike asked, a wicked grin creeping up his face. He was walking over to the table and now sat across from her, picking up the Derry newspaper.

“He snores,” Bev answered and looked up astonished when she realized Eddie had said it with her in unison. “What?”

“I stayed with him a lot when we were kids, he always snored, even back then. Funny, I wouldn’t ever have been able to tell you that two days ago.”

“Funny indeed,” Bev muttered, absent-mindedly re-tweeting something with her thumb and raising her mug to her lips simultaneously.

“Good old Derry. The gift that keeps on giving,” Mike retorted, bending the newspaper down to look at Eddie, who was still standing awkwardly in the doorframe. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

“But only gives…” Bev began “What it already took,” finished all three in unison.

“Make yourself comfy, Eddie. It’s your house too for the next-- for a little while, at least,” Mike added amiably.

And as if those words had given Eddie a mighty courage, he plopped himself down next to Beverly and grabbed the top book from a small pile on the table.

_ Black Rapids _ , by Bill Denbrough.

“You have one of Bill’s books?” Eddie asked, opening it to the first page.

“Look again.” And so Eddie did, the pile on the table consisted exclusively of Denbrough fantasies. All well-written and  _ familiar _ .

“Are they any good? I’ve only read the first ten pages of his newest. It’s gory as all hell, I’ll tell you that for free. And they swear so much…”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Bev answered, putting her phone down and reaching across Eddie for another book.

_ Attic Room, _ by Bill Denbrough.

“Yeah, they’re not bad at all, really. Not writing-wise, at least. They’re just all very, very…”

“Familiar?” supplied Eddie.

“Yeah, I guess, very  _ us _ . Or  _ us  _ back then.”

They sat next in a pleasant silence. Bev picked up her phone again, this time scrolling through Instagram. Eddie noticed her feed was mostly other businesses and clothing lines, and that there was an awful lot of pastel in them.

Eddie quietly sat next to Bev for a few moments before groggily picking himself up and walking to the kitchen counter for coffee.

“Mike, which cabinet are the mugs in?” he asked genially, opening and closing a few.

“The one to the left of the sink. On the top,” Mike replied, briefly looking up from the newspaper. And so Eddie poured himself coffee and returned to the table.

Although no one talked, the silence was not awkward or uncomfortable, it was agreeable. Everybody was still half asleep and no one really had anything to talk about anyway, everything was said the night before.

Finally Mike got up, alerting the others that he was going to change, and ambled into his room at the end of the hall.

“So what’s it like in there?” Eddie asked almost immediately after Mike had closed the door.

“Pardon?” 

“In the guesthouse, how is it, is it nice?” Beverly couldn’t read Eddie’s cadence, it was a mixture of childish curiosity and suspicion, she didn’t understand why, though.

“It’s pretty nice, I guess. The bed’s comfortable and Richie didn’t seem to have any trouble on the couch.”

“Yeah, but what’s it  _ like  _ like?” he inquired further.

“I have no idea what you mean, Eddie,” Bev replied, turning off and placing down her phone. Eddie took a sip of his piping coffee before starting, a look of impatience on his face.

“Like, have you noticed how this house is basically a hotel?” Beverly was confused. “Look,” he said, pointing to the recliner he had sat on the night previous. “That chair is brand  _ brand  _ new. I mean, like-- like as if he had gone down and bought it an hour before I got here.” Beverly looked at the chair, Beverly looked back at Eddie, she nodded her head.

“And then, my room, for instance. My sheets are hypoallergenic, I checked. Why would Mike have hypoallergenic sheets?”

“Maybe he was trying to just be nice, Eddie? Maybe everyone’s sheets are hypoallergenic?”

“Are yours?”

“I didn’t check.”

“Well I checked in the hallway closet this morning and there was an extra, older-looking set of queen-sized sheets. I think he bought my sheets really recently just for me, ‘cause he knows I would prefer them?”

“I mean, he could just be trying to be nice, this  _ is  _ Mike. He also he  _ did _ tell you that you would like that room best, remember?”

“That’s true.”

“And he suggested I take the guesthouse because I was the only girl--  _ woman _ . Remember, Richie was going to take the couch in here before I offered him the one in the guesthouse so no one would wake him up in the morning?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right…”

“I think he’s just looking out for us, Eddie. That guesthouse is  _ new _ . He spent  _ all  _ that money on a renovation that size just so some of us wouldn’t have to share a bed. He’s been planning this for years, and we-- and we all forgot about him in the meantime.”

Eddie didn’t say anything but nodded along solemnly.

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” she asked cautiously, turning more to look at him. “You’re not in the right mind. You’re-- you’re  _ cynical _ .”

“I don’t know it’s just that when-- that since I left Myra, my wife, who… I love… at home by herself so suddenly that she didn’t have time to prepare. She was so sad that I was leaving, and not being able to tell her where I was going made  _ me  _ sad.”

“I understand, Eddie, I do,” she said, ignoring the familiar uncertainty in his voice.

“Was Tom the same?”

“Um… yes. Yes, Tom was  _ exactly  _ the same. I’m worried that something will go… wrong, while I’m gone but you have to remember that Tom and Myra are strong, they haven’t been with us forever.”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying, Bev. Myra is  _ so,  _ so much stronger than I am, that’s why. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do what-- what we have to do, without her.”

“Eddie, you and I have done this before. We were  _ eleven _ , for goodness sake.  _ Eleven _ . We can stand to be away from our husband and wife for a few days if we could survive  _ that  _ at  _ eleven _ .”

“Yeah, I-- I guess you’re right, then.”

“Once Mike comes out we’ll ask him if we’re allowed to call our family, or if that-- I don’t even know, if that ruins it.”

“There’s a lot of weird rules when it comes to killing clowns.”

“Yes,” Bev replied cordially. “There sure is.”

They returned to absentmindedly drinking coffee and distracting themselves.

At some point, Mike had come back wearing a flannel (rolled up to his elbows) and some denim shorts with Timberlands on his feet.

At some point, also, Richie walked through the door.

“Ay! It’s Ed, Edd, and Eddie!” he exclaimed pointing to Bev, Mike, and Eddie respectively. Richie chuckled to himself,

“That made no sense, Richie,” Eddie informed.

“Thas tha beautee of hoomor!” Mike, Eddie, and Beverly looked amongst themselves, lost.

“What’s for breakfast, Mikey? Full-english?” Mike pointed to the coffee pot on the counter and spoke:

“Coffee’s on the counter, lemme know if you want more made, no problem, it takes three seconds. There’s eggs and milk and OJ in the fridge. There’s sausages and bacon and Eggos in the freezer. I’m sure there’s enough stuff in the pantry to make pancake mix, too, if you want.”

“I didn’t ask for your life’s story, Mikey,” Richie said jokingly, a smile crept across the faces of all those in the room, Richie’s attitude was contagious. “Unfortunately for me, I’m crap-shit at cooking, so today my to-do list says  _ starve _ .”

“How do you _not_ know how to warm up frozen sausages and Eggos ‘n’ shit, Richie? How are you still alive?”

“Well, Beverly,” Richie said to her, entering the kitchen, looking like a lost child in a place he had never been. “There’s room for one more contestant in Mikey’s  _ Hell’s Kitchen _ .” He gestured to the kitchen in a broad hand movement.

“Fine, I’m starving too. I’m guessing everybody wants breakfast?” she asked the rest of the room. They all agreed breakfast sounded saintly.

“Okay, right then, Richie and I--”

“Mostly you,” interjected Richie.

“Richie, that was implied. Richie and  _ I _ ,” she started again, “will cook breakfast for seven.”

“Six,” Mike said quickly.

“Oh yeah, six, my bad.” Beverly got up and headed to the kitchen, where an awaiting Richie stood, trying to find plates.

“Don’t think I’m asking you to cook because you’re a  _ woman _ , Bevvie. I would never do such a sexist deed--”

“No, Richie, you’re asking me to cook because I’m use _ ful  _ and you’re use _ less _ .”

“No need ta be a meeeeanie, Bevvie-wev,” Richie replied in his Schoolboy Thomas voice.

“Do you disagree?”

“I never said that.”

And then Ben walked through the door also, wearing a pair of baggy blue sweatpants and large, wrinkled button-down, the top two buttons were undone. They hadn’t realized until now just how  _ skinny  _ Ben was. He was like a stick, honest to God.

“Mornin’,” he called out to the room.

“Morning,” the room called back.

“Hey, Mike?” Ben started. “Are we like,  _ allowed _ , or whatever, to call people back home?” Eddie and Bev looked at each other expectantly, although Bev’s look was feigned (she did  _ not  _ want to call home) and she didn’t want Eddie to know that.

Mike pondered the question for a few moments, setting down his newspaper in front of him on the table. Then he made up his mind.

“I guess if you  _ really  _ have to. Last time we beat it, or  _ almost  _ beat it, I guess, we could because we were a group, y’know? We had each other and not that many other people.” Mike took a sip from his coffee. “I think we have to, sort-of, simulate that, if you will.”

Ben was now in the kitchen with Bev and Richie, pouring himself coffee.

“There’s a lot of rules when it comes to killing clowns,” Ben said.

“There sure is,” Bev and Eddie replied in unison, giggling at each other afterwards.

Ben sat himself down next to Eddie on the dining room table and drank his coffee while reading the news on his tablet. They sat there for a few minutes as Bev finished what she was doing on her phone, leaning on the kitchen counter. Richie stood behind her expectantly.

“You guys mind if I go run to the post office? It’ll take me five minutes.”

“Yeah, of course, Mike.”

“Try not to burn my house down while I’m gone.” He paused. “ _ Richie. _ ”

“Hey! I’m offended.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go take a shower,” said Ben. “You won’t be done in ten minutes, right?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Bev,

“Okay, Bevvie,” started Richie in the kitchen with her. “How do we cook?  _ Teach me magic, witch! _ ”

“Richie, I know you, so I don’t get annoyed, but one day you’re going to offend someone pretty badly.”

_ Beep! Beep! _

Bev looked with curiosity at Richie, the source of the sound. Richie pulled his phone from his pocket, it was an alarm and it read  _ Beep Beep, Richie _ . He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a short orange cylinder.

“I’ve got a crap-shit memory,” he chuckled to himself. “I’d never remember without my phone.”

“What is that, Richie?” Eddie asked from the table. “Is it that Adderall?”

“Yup,” Richie answered good-naturedly. “‘Eeps me healthy, ‘eeps me sane.” He shook the container humorously.

“What’s it for? Richie, are you dying?” While Richie was busy swallowing the tablet, Eddie answered.

“It increases dopamine in the brain, it’s a stimulant. They use it a lot to treat ADHD.” Beverly was shocked by this and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, Richie. Oh, Richie, I’m  _ so  _ sorry. You have to underst--””

“Bev, it’s okay. That’s why I take the drugs.”

“No, but Richie, what I said was rude and I really shouldn’t ha--”

“Bevvie, it’s  _ okay. _ ” He placed his hands on the sides of her shoulders affectionately. “You didn’t know, when I was a kid I was just loud and I talked a lot, that’s all you guys saw.”

“I’m sorry, Richie.”

“ _ Bevvie _ , it’s  _ okay _ .”

“Are you sure?”

“ _ Yes _ .”

“When did you start taking it, Richie? If you don’t mind me asking…” asked Eddie from the table.

“Um… pretty much right when we moved outta Derry, I think.” He looked at Eddie over the breakfast bar while Beverly got some stuff together behind him, ashamed and embarrassed. 

“Turns out Derry hospital doesn’t really look out for this kind of thing, but it’s okay.”

Eddie thought of how much Richie had drunk last night. It was a huge amount, not a  _ dangerous  _ amount, but more than the rest of them. He also thought about how Richie  _ still  _ smoked.

He was The Man of 1000 Voices on radio, but The Man of 1000 Vices in real life.

Eddie, after thinking about this, and how much he cared for Richie, even if those feelings had just reemerged a day ago, he shot up from his chair.

He snatched the pill bottle from Richie’s back pocket.

“Yo, Eddie! Not cool, man!”

“Richie, stop it’s okay, I’m just looking at the label.” Richie relaxed, initially afraid Eddie had transformed into some sort of pill goblin.

“How come?”

Eddie read the label quickly and efficiently, he knew where everything was, he read lots of them. This particular bottle seemed to check out. It was prescribed two days ago and there were thirty tablets in it. Eddie poured them out onto the counter.

“ _ Eddie _ , so not cool, man!” Richie took a protective step towards Eddie at the counter.

“Richie, calm your tits, watch me do it if you want.”

“What even are you--” Eddie was counting the tablets now, making sure there was twenty-six, the amount Richie  _ should  _ have taken since the time it was prescribed. There was twenty-five, but that didn’t worry Eddie, maybe he got them early in the day.

“Eddie, are you counting my pills?  _ Do you think I’m a fucking druggie, Eds? _ ” Richie’s mind knew instantly what was happening, for some reason lots of people asked him about stuff like this.

“Please, don’t call me Eds,” he responded timidly, putting the pills back quickly.

“Please don’t assume that because I take  _ prescribed  _ pills I’m a fucking addict!” Richie had raised his voice significantly, Eddie, who had never really been a courageous soul, stepped forward anyway.

“Richie,” he started calmly. “Look, I didn’t  _ assume _ , I was making sure.”

Beverly was trying her best to dissimulate behind them, she was whisking eggs, pretending she didn’t hear the argument going on two feet from her. But she did.

“Eddie--”

“Richie! You smoke, okay. You drink too, you drank six beers in two hours last night. That’s not just a coincidence, studies say 15% of people have addictive personalities and--”

“You’re digging a huge hole, Eds, and you’re about to jump innit.”

“ _ Richie! _ ” It was Beverly from behind him, he spun around. “Eddie’s just nervous okay, we all are. We just lost Stan yesterday and what we’re going to do today or tomorrow or  _ whenever  _ is not exactly the… calmest… thing, okay?”

Richie nor Eddie responded.

“We need everybody in good shape when we fight that  _ thing _ . Eddie is just trying to make sure you’re okay, he’s not accusing you, well he is, but not in a bad way.”

Richie turned to look at Eddie.

“And, Eddie,” started Bev. “If we’re going to be able to-- to do what we need to do, we need  _ trust  _ between us.”

“I know,” Eddie said weakly. “Look, Richie. I know I shouldn’t’ve…”

“I know, Eds, y--”

“Eddie.”

“ _ Eddie,  _ you’re nervous, we all are, and we show it in different ways. I crack  _ more  _ jokes, Bevvie turns into the world’s ultimate mom--”

“Hey!”

“Ben pulls a Ariel and stops talking, Mikey turns into the ultimate dad-- hey I ship it--”

“ _ Hey! _ ”

“Bill stutters, and you-- you turn into a freakishly-protective kleptomaniac.” Eddie smiled.

“I have to trust that you’re doing everything for what you think is a good cause and you have to trust that I’m not getting hooked on my  _ goddamn _ ADHD meds.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well you should be.”

They all laughed. 

“Come one, Eds, join  _ Hell’s Kitchen _ . Today we’re making  _ Breakfast a la Beverly _ .”

“Okay, but I call making the Eggos.”

“Eddie, that requires no skill at all,” commented Bev flatly.

“I know, that’s why I can do it.”

“Okay,  _ now _ I get why you’re so nervous about being away from Myra,” laughed Bev.


	12. Chapter 12

“So, what do you want to do?” asked Bill.

The room they were in was Bill’s room, and, they both suspected, now Stan’s room too. It was still hazy with darkness, the curtains were drawn over the windows; light still slipped through in thin rectangular beams like golden swords. Particles of dust floated in them like fish.

They both sat at the foot of the bed, both in Bill’s clothes. Their faces were distorted with odd shadows that painted their face. Them and the room was still.

“Nothing, right now. You can go down if you want.”

“Look, Stan.” He turned so he could look at Stan straight-on. “Those people down there eating breakfast, from what I can hear, breakfast I  _ really  _ want--” Stan chuckled. “--think you’re dead. And that  _ sounds  _ really gross and morbid, but they all know it isn’t  _ definitely  _ true. The longer you wait, the longer they go without you showing up, and the more they start to believe that that neighbor of yours that killed himself was  _ you. _ ”

“I know. That’s  _ exactly _ why I don’t want to go down. I’d feel so guilty.”

“Why? It wasn’t your fault you got here late and that some guy killed himself on the same night. I mean it’s awful that he did, but you didn’t orchestrate it.”

“I know, but--”

“Tell you what, Stan the Man. I’m going to go downstairs and eat because I’m hella fucking hungry. I’ll tell them you’re up here but that you’re still sleeping, and that you’ll probably be sleeping for a while longer.”

“Thanks, Bill. I owe you one.”

“Yeah sure. And, dude, we’re about the same size so help yourself to clothes from my bag, I don’t have too much but we can always wash stuff. I’m not even going to  _ ask  _ why you don’t have a suitcase.” They both chuckled for a few fleeting, pleasant moments. “That seems more like a group story than a one-on-one story.”

Bill patted Stan on the knee and got up, heading for the door.

“Oh, and Stan,” he turned around to face Stan on the bed. “Come down whenever you feel like. I know that feeling of confrontation, I felt it yesterday when I walked into this house.”

“Thanks.”

Bill reached for the door.

“Bill?”

“Yup?” He spun around again.

“I’m glad you were down there last night…”

“I’m glad  _ you _ were down there last night.”  Bill smiled and slipped through the door. 


	13. Chapter 13

So, for the second the second time that day, Bill walked down the stairs. Except this time the house basked in a midday haze that revealed its true colors. The house that had been blue was now a healthy pallet.

Everyone was sat around the dining room table eating what looked to be a full-english. Bill’s mouth watered. On his right side, the side of the eight-person table closest to the kitchen, sat Ben, Mike, and Eddie in that order with Ben being farthest from him. The seat at the head of the table was empty, but a plate and silverware had been laid out at it, for Bill, it would seem. Eddie, who had set the table, didn’t even consciously think about it, but when asked where he wanted everyone to sit (pure courtesy) he assigned them seats so that the head of the table remained free for Bill.

On the left side of the table sat Beverly and Richie, in that order with Bev farthest from him. About half of the food they had cooked was still in serving containers down the middle of the table.

“Bill!” yelped Eddie, excited to see his old best friend up. Bill sat down. They took turns with the  _ good mornings _ and the  _ how did you sleeps?  _ but Bill was too anxious about something to be pleasant.

“Hi. Guys, I  _ need  _ to tell you something. So last ni--” his hurried speech was cut short.

_ “Stan? _ ” It was Beverly’s timid and cautious voice. Bill whipped around in his seat to see Stan, dressed again in his own clothes, standing in the doorway awkwardly.

“Uh, hi, Bev,” he responded with a weak smile. Everyone else was frozen still, including Bill.  _ Stan must have left that room like thirty seconds after I did. _

“ _ Stan! _ ” This time her voice was not riddled with trepidation, just relief. She got up so quickly her chair almost fell over and launched herself onto Stan, clinging at him in a desperate hug, almost as if she was testing to make sure that he was real, that he was tangible, that he was  _ alive _ .

“Stan, what happened? Are you okay?” Mike asked, more calmly raising from his seat.

“Yes, I’m okay. Bill told me what happened, or-- or what you think happened. It was just an unfortunate coincidence, I guess.”

“Well, woodya lookit  _ that _ ! Stan the Man’s till wearing da clothes he wore back in dee day!” And Stan chuckled, relieved no one was rushing at him with a wooden stake yelling ‘ _ Vampire! Vampire!’  _ like they had done in his dreams. 

One by one all the 

( _ yes now you’re reunited but will it help? NO NO NO! You’re all still OLD) _

Losers got up and embraced Stan in hugs that were part  _ I’m glad you’re alive  _ and part  _ let me check if you really are _ .

Bill put food on his plate as they did this, beating Stan to the last non-burnt Eggo (turns out Eddie couldn’t even make Eggos that well). And once, when Bill looked back to see if they had finished welcoming Stan from the dead yet, he met Stan’s eyes through Beverly’s hug (who had gone back to Stan for seconds).

_ Thank you, Bill. I heard what you said and I did what you told and I thought what you thought. Thank you _ , read Stan’s soulful, brown eyes.

_ Anything for Stan the Man _ , he said with his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

Now they were all around the table once again. Luckily, Bev and Richie made way too much food and the quantity could accommodate an extra, unforeseen diner. It wasn’t soon before the general conversation reared its focus towards Stan. 

“Okay, Stan. It’s been a long enough wait, tell us why you got here in the middle of the night,” Mike asked. 

“It’s a hefty story,” he replied.

“I think we all have to hear it, honestly,” Bev commented, intrigued. Stan put down his knife and fork perfectly parallel to his plate and folded his napkin down next to them. He took a breath before he started. The others looked at him eagerly.

“So I got Mike’s call, right?” started Stan, adjusting slightly his silverware. “It was… maybe ten or so in the morning? I was just about ready to go to work, I work the late mornings on Fridays, and he calls me.” The tone of the story wasn’t one of gravity or even seriousness, it was like ten-year-olds telling each other about a  _ totally tubular  _ thing that happened to them that day.

“He tells me everything, and I’m, like, hyperventilating and having a panic attack just sitting on the couch, right?  _ Not  _ the most flattering image of me, but whatever.” There was a light-hearted chuckled circulating the room. Stan sipped his coffee and placed it down in the same position it was in before continuing.

“So I’m not very  _ keen  _ on coming back or anything, I know I have to but--” he shot Bill a quick glance,  _ help me, story-master, help me lie to them. _

“You’re you,” Bill interjected. “You’re the one who would be  _ most  _ uncomfortable, we get it.”

“What is this?” Richie asked, moving a finger back and forth between Bill and Stan. “You guys share a room one night and suddenly you have, like, a shared mind or something?” We waggled all ten fingers for the final few words.

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Stan rejected. “Bill’s good with words--”

“He never used to be, right, B-B-Big Buh-Buh-Bill?” Richie cackled, then he looked around at the others, an accusatory finger raised at Bill. “ _ Wait. _ ” The glaze of an epiphany covered his face. “You’re not stuttering anymore!”

“Yeah, I know. It sounds dumb, but, I think it’s because--”

“We’re all together,” Mike finished. “I know what you mean, Bill. A few days ago I busted my knee fixing up an old car and it’s been pretty achey since then, but today I woke up with  _ no  _ pain.”

“Me too!” exclaimed Bev. She raised her hand. “Look, I’m missing these nails,” the others grimaced at the sight, “because I-- they got  _ infected  _ and the pain is just not here today.”

“Anyone else have any magical remedy stories?”

“My asthma hasn’t kicked in a single time today, not even when Richie dropped the flour this morning and it went everywhere and I breathed it in. Shit like that  _ always  _ triggers it,” explained Eddie, looking timidly down at his plate, then slowly up to Richie.

“My OCD is kinda mild today,” Stan started. “Like when you guys all hugged be just then, you wrinkled my shirt to  _ shit  _ but, like, I’m not asking Bill for another one or anything.”

“Why would you have to ask Bill for a new shirt? Is he like your shirt distributor?” Richie tried, but no one laughed.

“Well, um, that’s part of the story I haven’t gotten to yet…” said Stan.

“Do tell, Stan the Man,” Bev teased.

“Okay, so where was I?”

“I don’t know, your story was boring and I lost interest,” said Richie flatly.

“ _ Richie! _ ” yelped Eddie, horrified. 

“I’m  _ kidding _ , Eds, I would  _ never  _ say that out loud, not even if it was one of  _ your  _ stories.” Eddie looked away from him, trying to hold back a laugh.

“You didn’t want to come,” informed Ben.

“Oh, yeah, thanks, man. So I went to work and kinda just sat in my office thinking about, you know, all the pros and cons and stuff like that while having a few panic attacks.” Stan chuckled to himself. “Then, when I finally couldn’t take it anymore, I started going home and a bus stopped  _ right  _ in front of my office which had Hartsfield-Jackson as its final stop.”

“Hardfeel-Jackoff? What’s that?” asked Richie. Everybody erupted in laughter.

“It’s the airport in Atlanta,” Stan said after composing himself. “I guess even though it sounds cheesy or whatever that that was kind of like an omen from the universe. So I got on it, and when I got to the airport I asked if there was any flights headed to Maine. There was one headed to Bangor literally forty-five minutes after I got there that still had a good amount of seats.”

“So you just left? You didn’t even pack a fucking bag?” 

Beverly gasped:

“ _ Stanley _ , you didn’t even bring a  _ toothbrush _ ?”

“I  _ know! _ It’s disgusting! I just knew that if I didn’t get on that bus right then, I’d go home and I would convince myself to-- to--”

“Not come?” Bill supplied, knowing what Stan didn’t want to say.

“What the  _ fuck  _ is up with you two? If you two fucked last night and it gave you telepathic powers then  _ tell us  _ because I want some too,” joked Richie.

Three people punched Richie. Eddie slapped him. Bill and Stan looked extremely awkward, but still laughed. 

“Richie, I’m actually begging you to shut up.”

“Fine. I’ll control myself.”

They continued to eat, small conversations cropping up between various Losers, some including all of them. 

When they were done, Mike spoke to them as a group the way a coach would do to his team. He stood behind the kitchen counter, a position where he could see everybody else.

“So, I think we have to talk business. Not in-depth or anything yet, but just strategy.”

“Sure, Mike. Let’s sit down?” asked Bev.

Bill, Stan, and Bev sat on the couch. Eddie had the recliner he was on last night stolen by Richie, and after he refused to give it back, Eddie plopped himself on Richie’s lap, with major protest, but Eddie was oddly comfortable.

Ben was offered the armchair by Mike as he dragged a chair from the table for himself. 

“So, do we have a plan of attack?” Bill asked, testing the waters.

“No, and I don’t think we should,” Mike explained. “Look, I’ve been thinking about this  _ a lot  _ and I have some ideas.”

“Shoot.”

“When we were kids we-- we beat It because we were kids. Children are stronger against It for some reason, right?”

“Sure.”

“We also beat It without a plan, without a strategy, because what kid makes a cogent strategy?”

“This is true.”

“I say, we just go in again. Last time we were all one  _ unit _ . That was the strength in us, we all trusted each other, we all believed each other, and we all  _ loved  _ each other. This was the reason we could beat it.”

“It fed on chaos, on fear. That’s why it preyed on kids, they’re chaotic and easily scared.”

“Exactly, Eddie,” Mike nodded. “So, realistically, I think, we don’t have anything to be scared of as long as we are as close as we were when we were kids, right?”

“No,” disagreed Stan flatly. “Not only are we not  _ nearly  _ as close as we were back then, but we’re old, Mike. All of our parents or whatever, the  _ adults  _ of Derry, were useless to do anything about it, why should we be different?”

“Because we’re  _ different _ , Stan,” replied Mike. “We made a pact when we were kids that brought us back here, we have an edge over it. And the pact, that pact ties us back to our childhood. As long as we’re all together, and complete the circle, sort of, we might as well  _ be  _ kids.”

A silence fell over the room.

“I don’t know if any of you noticed, but after we beat It we were never together, all seven of us, again.  _ Today  _ is the first day the Losers’ Club is reunited after what happened that day. I think that was Its will. That pact made us stronger, we as a team made us stronger, so It kept us apart.”

“Now we’re together,” Bev said.

“Yes, now we’re together,” Mike agreed.

“Now we’re together,” Ben amended.

“Now we’re together,” Eddie said solemnly.

“Now we’re together at last,” Stan added.

“Now we’re together,” Bill remarked.

“Now we’re  _ together! _ ” Richie finalized.


	15. Chapter 15

“ _ Beverly Marsh Designs! _ ” Stan yelped. “I  _ love  _ that brand! It’s so weird how I never realized that that was your name.”

“Yeah, everyone else said that too, apparently we all forgot,” Bev responded.

They were both sat outside on the stairs of the porch, looking disconnectedly at Mike’s gravel driveway. Richie, Eddie, and Mike’s cars were all parked at the end of it, glinting softly in the summer sun.

Some time had passed since the Losers’ eventful breakfast, it was one or two in the afternoon now, and everyone had taken to their own, doing whatever they wanted to, really.

“Well, that settles it.  _ You’re  _ taking me to Derry mall for some new clothes, I need your expert opinion.” Bev chuckled in response.

“I’ve got nothing else to do. So, sure, I’ll help you pick out just  _ what  _ shade of blue your new shirt should be.”

“Hey! I  _ like  _ blue, it’s clean, professional.”

“I agree, and so did eleven-year-old Stan.”

“Some parts of us don’t change, I guess.”

“I guess.”

They sat on the porch for a few more minutes. Beverly looked at her surroundings vacantly, in a comfortable, yet oddly-weary mindset. Stan pulled a book out of his back pocket, it was on the small side and had a sturdy leather cover.

“ _ Stan!  _ You  _ still  _ have the  _ same  _ book?” Beverly joked, snatching the book from his hand.

“Yeah, there’s some things in there that have been proven incorrect, but I just replace the info in it. I guess it just means stuff to me…”

Beverly rolled the bird book over in her hands and flipped through the pages. There were small sketches Stan had drawn along its margins and miniscule,  _ neat  _ handwriting tattooing its pages which were now discolored by time. It was old, and she was sure some of these pages hadn’t seen the sun in a few years, but it felt heavy and  _ important  _ in her hands. She flipped dedicatedly through a handful of pages in the middle, stopping at a blank page with a scene sketched onto it.  

Two birds were sitting on one thin, gnarled branch like tiny gargoyles. One was looking down onto the ground from its perch, and the other avian was looking at the other directly.

Without looking up, Bev acknowledged her and Stab’s position, she was looking down, sat on the steps of Mike’s porch, and she could feel Stan’s stare on her neck. She smiled. 

“Stan, these sketches are  _ really  _ good,” she insisted. 

“Thanks. But I can only draw birds. I’m no Bill.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re any less of an artist, Stan. Just look at this!” She pointed daintily at the sketch, her finger hovering over the page as she was afraid to smudge the pencil markings. She traced the intricate details that curved around the branch underneath the birds’ talons, and then went on to admire the light hatching that brought the feathers to life.

“Well, thanks, Bev. Practice makes perfect, I guess,” he remarked. He took the book from her and opened to the first page. “See? This is the only sketch from when I was a kid I haven’t erased… it was the first one.” Bev looked at it. It was nowhere near as elegant and beautifully illustrated, but it had a childhood sense to it that she felt was comforting.

Beverly looked up and smiled at him in a wide grin and leaned forward to hug him.

“Beverly, you’re going to wrinkle my shirt  _ more _ .” She hugged him anyway.

“C’mon, let’s get you some new clothes, then.”


	16. Chapter 16

The Derry Mall was very reminiscent of the Derry outside of the mall. It was small, oddly unpopulated, and  _ quiet _ .

“It’s so fucking  _ quiet  _ in here. I think we’ve passed, like, maybe ten people in total,” Stan remarked, looking fascinatedly around.

“Yeah, it’s kinda eerie, to be honest,” Bev replied. Bev snaked her arm and coiled it around Stan’s, they kept walking.

“Do you have any idea where we’re headed?” Stan inquired, looking at every shop they passed in case it was a men’s clothing store.

“No idea.” Pause. “Hey, wait up. There’s a map over there,” she alerted, pointing to a poster on the wall with a colorful floor plan on it of the mall.

“See anything you  _ approve  _ of?” Stan mocked, jabbing Bev in the sides friendlily from behind. They laughed. 

“No, not really; I’ve barely heard of half these places. But hey, look,” she pointed at a number on the map and Stan looked at the legend to see what store that corresponded to.

“ _ The Gap? _ ” Stan moaned. “ _ Really?  _ Even  _ I  _ don’t shop at the Gap, Bev.”

“Look, it’s the only place I know here, and my company is ‘friendly’ with them, or whatever,” she informed as they started off in the direction of the Gap.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Stan laughed.

“Me neith--” Someone from behind them let out a catcall whistle. When the duo whipped around they saw a guy looking over his shoulder as they walked the other way. Bev gasped, Stan’s face was covered with a look of pure disgust.

“Oh my fucking  _ gosh _ ,” Stan spoke into Bev’s ear.

“Just let it go, Stan, it happens to women all the time, you wouldn’t get it.”

“That’s the fucking  _ problem _ , Bev. Guys can’t just let other guys do this, are you shitting me?” Stan unraveled his arm from Bev’s.

“Yo, bud.” He started, walking briskly towards the guy. “Keep your eyes where they should be,” he raised an accusatory finger and poked the man’s chest, “right up your sexist  _ ass _ .”

“Stan,  _ don’t _ .”

“Yeah,  _ Stanley _ ,” the man mocked, “don’t.” He employed a very overdone and purposefully demeaning impression of a woman’s voice.  _ Only my friend gets to do Voices _ , Stan thought quickly.

“I wouldn’t  _ have  _ to if  _ scum  _ like  _ you _ could have a scrap of fucking human decency.”

“So I thought your girlfriend was hot, what’s the big deal? That’s a compliment.”

“Excuse me but she’s--”

“Hey,” Bev interjected. “I agree! My  _ boyfriend  _ has  _ great _ taste. Taste in women who refuse to  _ take shit from predators like you _ .” She pushed the guy lightly. Stan was impressed; she didn’t seem afraid to make a scene anymore.

“Yo, lady, whatever I’m  _ sorry _ . Is that what you want?” he jeered.

“No I  _ want  _ you to learn a fucking lesson.”

“Look, freaks, I don’t know what you’re playing at--”

“Why would you even think you had a  _ remote  _ chance with her? Look, if you’re gonna hit on women at least look good. Don’t wear your hat backwards, pull up your damn pants, and maybe chew some gum at some point? I can  _ smell  _ the pot on your breath.”

“What the  _ fuck-- _ ” spittle flew from the guy’s mouth as he got progressively more angry.

“Yeah. A wifebeater that looks like it came from a ten-pack from Target? Pool sandals with  _ socks _ ? And  _ oh my fucking god _ , Stan was right, learn to brush your fucking  _ teeth _ .” The guy looked at both of them, lost and confused, unaware of what in  _ the hell  _ just happened.

Stan picked off lint from the guy’s shirt and quickly added a, “Clean yourself up, Bud,” before turning on his heels alongside Beverly and walking away. 

_ (is that all you’ve got? Mockery and finger-pointing hahahaha) _

They laughed, making sure they were in earshot of the guy, who was still standing in the middle of the hallway with his mouth open a little bit. They linked arms again and kept walking.

“Thank you, Stan. That--”

“Don’t  _ thank _ me, Bev. Jesus  _ Christ _ , that  _ shouldn’t  _ have had to happen in the first place, don’t thank me for doing something that  _ had  _ to be done.” Bev looked at Stan in a new light, the face that she had seen as just an older version of eleven-year-old-Stan was now that of a man. No, more than a man. A  _ decent human being _ .

“Still, thank you. From me to you,” Bev started, looking up at Stan with tears welling surreptitiously at the corners of her eyes. “I-- my life is complicated, and it means a lot to me to see guys I care about standing up to  _ pigs  _ like that.”

“Well, I can’t say you’re welcome, Bev, I just did what had to be done, what was  _ right _ , I guess.”

He made fuller eye contact with her, looking to his right and down a little bit. “And, Bev, whatever’s going on in your life, it isn’t a burden you have to carry alone, you can tell me things.”

“Thank you, Stan. And the same goes for you, I know there’s some part of your life’s story you left out.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“I don’t know, the way you told us what you had been up to over breakfast, it sounded like you were writing a story, not reciting one, if that makes sense. And I’m sure that Bill knows about it too, or Richie  _ was  _ right and you two got magic sex-telepathy.” She wiped away the traces of tears on her eyes as she and Stan laughed.  _ Hard _ .

After the commotion of before, they had forgotten where the Gap was and gotten a little lost. Luckily Stan’s trained, bird-watching eyes caught sight of the store on the balcony-walkway of the second floor. And so they made their way up.

Bev didn’t expect, but was very pleasantly surprised to see, how careful and  _ tidy  _ Stan was when it came to shopping. On the unfortunate occasion she had to help Tom pick clothes out, he was always convinced by the first item he tried on that fit, and everything else he threw on top of the racks, expecting some poor employee to sort the mess out. That  _ disgusted  _ Bev, who had worked clothing retail for years and years after she moved away from Derry.

But Stan was very unlike this, he tried  _ everything  _ he saw that he liked and took careful consideration when choosing which item to commit to. And, most to her liking,  _ every _ item he picked off the shelf was fastened back up, folded perfectly, and, if need be, hung back up on the racks.

She supposed it had more to do with Stan’s OCD (which he seemed to be struggling with much less than when he was a kid, she learned after she asked), but she still admired the fact that he did it with, what seemed like, actual care, not just to satiate his OCD.

But on one particular occasion while trying something on, Beverly had witnessed a side of Stan divorced from the neat and tidy one she was so used to.

“You have to, I think it’ll look  _ really  _ good!” she urged, holding out a short-sleeved button-down with a funky, magenta floral pattern.

“No, Bev, I don’t do short-sleeves, they’re too casual for me. I  _ own a business  _ just like you. Imagine if I rocked up to the  _ accountant  _ office with  _ this  _ on.”

“You don’t have to wear it to work, Stan the Man. This can be get-up for, like, crazy-weekend-party Stan.”

“Bev…” he whined. 

“ _ Please?  _ Look, is it because you don’t work out? Are you self conscious of your arms? I get that! But trust me people don’t notice stuff like that, they’ll be to busy asking you where you got that shirt!”

“First,  _ no _ , I don’t wear short sleeves because of personal preference, and  _ what  _ am I supposed to answer?  _ I got this from the Gap _ ? I think  _ not _ .”

“Fine, then ignore them if they ask you. Just  _ try it on,  _ for me?” Beverly and Stan were aware they were bickering like siblings, but there was something charming and childly about it that they  _ loved _ .

“Fucking  _ fine _ , Bev. But if I don’t like it, then I don’t have to show you. Plus  _ you  _ shouldn’t talk, you’ve been wearing a long-sleeve blouse all day.”

“That’s different, I have to rep my brand, we don’t make any short-sleeve blouses that match these pants,” she replied coolly, motioning at the skinny jeans she was wearing. 

“ _ Represent! _ ” Stan hollered, walking towards the changing rooms.

“Stan, you just convinced me outside before that you  _ weren’t  _ a fuckboy, don’t make me take back my assumption.”

“I wouldn’t dare,  _ bro _ .”

“Fuck off, Stan!” They chuckled.

And so he pushed the curtain to the changing room aside and walked in. Bev sat outside for a few hot moments before the anxiety bubbling in her stomach got the best of her and she snuck into the guy’s changing room (something she wouldn’t  _ dare  _ do unless the store was as empty as it was today), and went into the one next to Stan’s.

“How’s it going, Stan the Man?”

“I  _ hate  _ it. It’s tackier when it’s on me, Jesus Christmas.” Bev laughed.

“Well I’m coming into see, anyway, for fashion-research purposes,” she chuckled as she pushed open the curtain.

“ _ Beverly no! _ ” He tried to hold her back but Bev must have been right about his not working out because she pushed right into the changing stall anyway.

Stan stood facing her with his arms clutched behind him; without knowing the truth, one would think we was showing off the shirt to Bev.

“Looks like you’re pretty confident-feeling in in.”

“Uh, no, that’s just… um… how I stand. Look, Bev, you gotta get out of here, this is the men’s chang--”

“Twirl around for me, I wanna see.” Reluctantly, he did, making sure the inside of his arms were facing away from her during the rotation. She looked at him, somehow missing his expression of clear uncomfort, with a faux look of professional concentration.

“Why don’t you like it? I think it suits you.” She informed. “Here, raise your arms, I wanna see how the seams sit on your shoulders.”

“No, Bev, I think that’s enough, I don’t want it anyway.”

“Then I’ll buy it for you as a present, put your arms up, Stan the Ma--”

“ _ Beverly _ ,” he punctuated sternly. She looked up, confused.  _ Now  _ she noticed his expression. Uncomfort, for sure, but also… was that traces of fear?

“Stan, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was really making you un--”

“No, Bev, it’s not a  _ you  _ thing, you were just being nice, I get it, it’s more of a  _ me  _ issue. I appreciate it, but… but…”

“Stan,” she said with exasperated worry in her voice. She approached him cautiously, and he tensed up in response by shoving his hands in his front pockets, in turn pressing the flat of his forearms against his sides. “Stan, what’s wrong?”

Stan could hear the genuine worry in her voice, but still didn’t want to make  _ her  _ uncomfortable by talking about… about his  _ problems _ .

“No, nothing, don’t worry,” he responded, trying to act casual. It wasn’t working.

“Yes. I will  _ damn  _ worry about something if I want to.”

“Bev--”

“No,  _ Stan _ , look, I already made one person uncomfortable today because I made fun of them for something they couldn’t control about themselves, it was a mistake, sure, but I  _ don’t  _ want to do it again.”

She approached him again, taking his hands in her own, to Stan’s own surprise, he let her do this. He also had a sort of  Déjà Vu to Bill’s soft touch on his laced and ribboned arms the night before.

She looked up at his eyes, and suddenly she thought she understood. There was a tamed pain in his eyes, it swam below his irises like a leviathan. It coiled and intertwined, wriggling against it’s glass cage as it tried to break free. She recognized that pain, it was pain on the basic, human-moral level, caused by a wrongdoing  _ so _ intense and  _ so  _ perverse. She recognized the fear that bound it, the fear that spoke in hushed, secret tones.

_ (if you tell, I’ll do it more. I’ll do it more and it’ll hurt more and you’ll scream, yes you will) _

She recognized this look in Stan’s deep, brown,  _ soulful  _ eyes because she saw it in her own every morning at her bathroom sink.

And so it was because of this that she carefully raised Stan’s wrists upwards with major trepidation, hoping for his sake purely that she wouldn’t find what she thought she would.

Stan, again, much to his own surprise and bewilderment,  _ let  _ her.  _ What am I doing? She’s never going to see me the same again, she’s going to think I’m a freak, or that I’m over dramatic or something,  _ what  _ am I  _ doing?

Beverly let out a small gasp at the sight. Not a gasp of surprise, for she knew what she would find, but a gasp of pity and understanding. Down his forearms laid silver increments like a ruler, each equidistant from each other like rungs on a ladder. They were straight and  _ neat _ , but that didn’t take away from the severity of the sight.

“Stan…” she breathed. Stan tried to pull his arms back, but Bev refused to let him. She sat him down on the bench in the changing stall and sat next to him, still clutching his forearms.

“No, Bev, it’s fine. I was in an accident and I got cut up--”

“Hush,” and those words were so final, so definite, and so motherly that Stan did just that. “Stan, I’m so sorry,” she looked at his face now, full of fright and sadness. “But you have to understand,  _ this  _  doesn’t make you any less… any less  _ you _ . This a battle you have to overcome and you can’t do it alo--” This time he  _ did  _ pull his arms back, snatching them into his own hands across his stomach as he retorted back to her:

“No, Beverly. You _don’t_ get to say that. I don’t _choose_ to do this. It _happens_.” Bev knew better than to shut him up, this vent was a step in the right direction and she could recognize that. _There’s relief in his voice, he wants to tell me,_ she thought, feeling nothing but pride for her friend. _Admitting. that’s what he’s doing, it’s the first step of the healing process, the one I can never bring myself to do._ “The world, it just… it’s not always _neat_ and _organized_ and I can’t _fucking_ _stand it_ , Bev. I _can’t stand it_ , Bev.” Tears were streaming down his face eagerly now, uninhibited. “And I _can’t_ just _ignore_ it, like everyone fucking tells me to. _I just can’t_. It’s fucking dirty and not-neat and it _pisses me off_. I can’t help it, Bev. I just,” he said weakly, “I just _can’t help it._ ” He inhaled.

Bev knew no words could resew Stan’s emotional composition, and so wordlessly, she began to unbutton her blouse. Despite the connotations, Stan instantly recognized the act as something more meaningful than any sexual advance could be.

And he was right; by the first two buttons he was already gasping. Beverly had joined him in his weeping as she did this, but at this point she was shrugging off her top.

“ _ Bev… _ ” Stan whispered, his hearting sinking into his stomach. Looking at herself in the mirror for the first time since she had  _ left  _ Tom, she realized that her condition was much worse than it had ever been. Her arms were tiger-striped with marks the hard leather of the belt had printed onto her. They ran all the ways up from her mid-forearms to her clavicle and then down her torso. Many of the marks ran around broken skin from which blood had once flown.

It was a grizzly sight, and although the physical gore was enough to make a grown man unsure on whether his lunch was to stay down, Stan buried his face into her neck and body into hers in a hug of solace because of the emotional impact.

“ _ Bev… _ ” he started, talking in hot, shaky breaths at the side of her face where his head had ended up. Sure the hug was awkward, as they were both still sat next to each other, but it spoke consolation in ways words never could. “Why didn’t you… ever tell us… that Tom did this to you… tell anyone?” His breath was fractured by shallow inhalations and wavering exhalations; he didn’t even have to ask who did this, he knew.

It all made sense, the way Bev talked about Tom. Her lies were moderately convincing, especially to the others, but they both were hiding something so grave and they could sense fallacies in each other's confident deceptions.

Both of their crying increased significantly.

“I-- I was… too scared, that-- that people would think… I was  _ weak  _ or-- or…  _ helpless _ ,” she let out. A Tom-sized weight lifted off of her heart and floated around them like a painful vapor. 

“I know, Bev. I know,” he comforted. They pulled themselves out of the hug and sat in silence for a while after that, staring at each other's scars, both the ones imprinted on their skin and the ones they could read behind the haze of the other’s eyes.

After moments and moments had passed, Stan wordlessly reached behind Bev and pulled her blouse over her shoulders again, he buttoned it up without saying anything, and when he finished he leaned back to make sure he hadn’t put any of the buttons in the wrong slits; he hadn’t. Then, almost instinctively, she did it back to Stan, getting up quickly to get grab one of the shirts Stan had decided on previously and ran it to the register. She was back in less than thirty seconds and found Stan in the same position he was in before.

This transaction was more awkward logistically, but she managed to pull Stan’s (even she admitted) hideous shirt off and replace it with the long-sleeve, pale-cyan button-down Stan had shown interest in. Stan checked the buttons over in the mirror of the stall before turning back to Beverly.

He rolled up her sleeves, exposing a few bruises below her elbows, in a rehearsed way so that the sleeves sat perfectly folded just under her elbows. He took off his two decorative rings and placed them on her fingers. He took of his watch and put it on her wrist, making sure it was facing the right way and that it wasn’t too tight. He took an unused handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around her opposite wrist in a way that (even Beverly the Fashion Expert had to admit) was very fashionable. 

The look Bev gave Stan was one of pure thankfulness.

“No one will notice the bruises now,” he whispered at her. She moved her hands down, folding up his sleeves too in a way she hoped wouldn’t trigger his OCD. It didn’t. 

When she had done this as neatly as possible, she raised each arm individually and pressed a soft, caring kiss to either of his wrists, right where the scares laced them like lines of latitude.

“They’re battle scars, if you can show them, it means you won the battle, and that’s nothing worth hiding,” she informed softly, staring at him. He smiled a gracious smile at her in return. She couldn’t help but notice how white and even Stan’s teeth were.

Returning to normal after an interaction as intimate as this was a slow, but not necessarily awkward, process. At some point, it seemed like they would never speak jokingly as they had done before, but by the time they had paid (Stan  _ had  _ to pay Bev back for the shirt she put on him, and she got back at him by gifting him the  _ horrible  _ floral one) and were headed to the Eddie’s car, which they had borrowed for the afternoon, they were almost back to normal.

Friends once again. Now more than ever. So together, arm in arm, they walked through the mall and parking lot, sleeves up and battle scars of victory showing proudly. 


	17. Chapter 17

“Woah, Bev and Stan just ditched, huh?” Bill asked walking into the living room; he had just changed out of his pyjamas and put on a thin green cardigan and some slacks, the same loafers he had worn yesterday adorned his feet.

“Yeah, they went to Derry Mall to get Stan some clothes,” Mike responded flatly. He was sitting on the recliner reading a book.

“Where are the other three?” It was an attempt at small talk, mostly.

“Outside I think, I told them there’s a lake a few hundred yards out back in the woods, they went out that way.”

“Is there?”

“I mean, lake might be a generous term.” Mike and Bill snickered at the thought.

“So, what’s the next step in your attack plan?” Bill asked cautiously while he sat down on the couch near Mike.

“I’m not sure, we have to act soon, though, I don’t want to let more kids… get taken.”

“I agree, we can’t just sit around waiting for an invitation to the sewers to come in the mail,” Bill said seriously. Mike chuckled half-heartedly, trying to fill the silence before he spoke again.

“I vote tomorrow. I think we need to be closer… emotionally, or whatever, but it doesn’t look like anyone is really having any sort of heart-to-heart. We’re just fragments pulled together with temporary glue.”

“That’s very poetic of you, Mike.”

“I probably read it somewhere, to be honest.” Bill smiled.

“And…” started Bill, “I wouldn’t give up hope that easily. You never know what kind of heart-to-heart happens behind closed doors.”

“Wait,  _ did  _ you and Stan fuck?”

“Why is  _ everybody  _ saying that? Jesus Christ,” Bill squealed exasperatedly. They sat in comfortable silence for several ticking moments, Mike didn’t even bury himself in his book again, he just sat staring at the wall.

“ _ Oh! _ ” yelped Mike suddenly. “I totally forgot… Bill, you wanna see something awesome?”

“ _ Always _ .”

“Here, come with me.” Mike shot up quickly, and turned on his heels towards the door, he beckoned Bill with a quick hand motion and a wide grin.

He had led Bill outside and to the top of the gravel driveway, where the garage sat squat, that had Ben’s room on the second floor.

“You’re gonna  _ flip _ .”

“I hope so, I could use some flippage.” It was a bad joke, Bill knew this.

Mike bent down and reached for the handle to the garage door. With a great heft and single fluid movement, Mike pulled the door upwards and it rolled up to the ceiling on its tracks. 

Bill’s eyes widened. 

Parked sideways so it took up both garage spaces, was the ‘66 Shelby that, twenty-seven years ago, had belonged to Old Man Stevens. Bill’s mind raced with visions of the old man washing the car every other afternoon; he had never seen him drive it.

“No  _ way _ ,” he gasped.

“Yes way.”

“H-- how?”

“Well when Stevens died, he didn’t leave a will or anything, apparently he didn’t have family or anything. So they sold it with everything in it, but no one wanted to buy it, for whatever reason. When I finally closed the offer they offered me the car too for a little extra, I couldn’t afford it but I couldn’t resist.”

“You got a loan… for a  _ car _ ?”

“I told the bank it was only for the house.” Bill was circling the car, the back of which was covered with a tarp.

“Damn, James Bond right here.” Mike laughed.

“Did you pay it off?”

“Oh yeah, it took a few years but I got it.”

“ _ Damn _ .”

“You like cars, Big Bill?”

“I mean, not especially, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate… this. It looks even  _ better  _ now.”

“Yeah, I guess it ages well.”

“Like wine,” Bill chuckled. He was orbiting the car and trailed a hand over the exposed metal, leaving a faint line as he picked dust up. “You haven’t taken it out in a while, huh?”

“No; I made an effort to take it out every weekend the first few years I had her, but, taking a nice car out isn’t as great as you’d think when you’re alone.”

“I’m here,” Bill hinted.

“You wanna take it out?”

“Only if I can call shotgun,” Bill joked, motioning to the two seats the car had. 

“Shit, Bill, call the seat  _ next  _ to shotgun.”

“ _ Really? _ ” Bill asked excitedly. 

“Hell yeah, you gotta remember, though, we drive on the right side here, you Brit.”

“Oh, fuck, yeah.” Bill and Mike erupted in laughter as they pulled the tarp off the back of it to reveal more of the deep green body. “We should clean it up first, I feel like it would be a sin to take it out like  _ this _ .” He ran a finger to pick up dust and showed it to Mike.

“Sure, I’ll go get a bucket of water, there are sponges in the drawer next to worktable, if you wanna grab them, Big Bill.”

“Hell yeah.” And so they dispersed, Mike hurrying to the house with a childish excitement clawing around his stomach and his throat, and Bill looking hurriedly through the drawers for a sponge.

It took around fifteen minutes to sponge the car down with their level of care, and afterwards they decided to clean the discs on the wheels, and then the glass (Mike dug out window-cleaning product from the same drawers Bill had been rummaging through before) as well. 

Once the car looked good enough to be relatively new, Mike grabbed the keys from his safe in his room, he jangled them in front of Bill’s face.

“Really? For real?”

“Yeah, for sure, you drive out and we’ll switch; I’ll drive it back.”

“Sounds like a  _ deal _ .”

The ride was positively exhilarating. Mike had put down the roof on the old car and they had let the warm summer air push against their hair and faces. Bill rode like a maniac, and Mike  _ loved  _ it. They swerved around corners and barely slowed at stop signs. It was the ride of a lifetime.

Mike looked over once to look at Bill’s face as he was driving. Bill’s hands clasped the wheel and his eyes stared straight ahead to the road, an intelligent, calculating look was on his face. And the Mike realized why. He realized where Bill’s head was.

Sure he was zipping through Derry’s streets as a thirty-eight year-old man externally, but Bill’s mind saw something very different.

“HIYO, SILVER, AWAAAY!” he called through the voice of an eleven year-old. His hands were not clutching at the steering wheel, like Mike was seeing, but at the rusted and slightly dented handlebars of  _ Silver _ . 

He turned the handlebars and the oversized Schwinn flew in that direction, skidding along the streets like a great metal stallion. Bill hollered an excited, youthful yowl as he careened down Up-Mile Hill, passersby whipping their heads towards him and thinking:  _ That kid’s going to  _ kill _ himself. _

But, boy, if Bill was going to die he hoped to  _ death  _ that it was on the back of  _ Silver _ , without a care in the world and howling at his heart’s desire.

With the wind whipping at his face, he could feel the mop of hair that used to sit on the top of his head when he was a kid flapping around his ears and he howled again.

“HIYO, SILVER, AWAAAY!” The summer sun glinted off of  _ Silver  _ as if it was brand new, and Bill hollered again as he directed Him to turn onto Center Street. He took the turn oh-so-gracefully, a manoeuvre  _ only _ Bill knew how to perform on  _ Silver’ _ s back. 

Bill smiled the large, toothy grin of his eleven year-old self and pumped a fist in the air. Mike whooped but Bill couldn’t tell whether it came from next to him on the passenger seat or behind him on  _ Silver _ ’s shelf. 

For those moments Bill completely forgot why he was in Derry again, what he was here to fight, and who he was with. In fact, he had forgotten about his return to Derry altogether. He was just Big Bill, letting go for a while on the back of  _ Silver _ , not caring whether a car rounded the corner from Canal Street and T-boned him or if he would lose control and fly into the canal.

This car was  _ Silver _ .

And this Bill was Big Bill.

Bill didn’t check, but he was sure Mike would look as he had done twenty-seven years ago if he did. The youth still painted on his face, not yet washed away by the cascade of adulthood. 

The fantasy slowly faded away as he turned onto Harris Avenue, a long, straight road that led through Derry’s colonnade of forest. With no turns, stunts, or risks to be taken on that road, Bill slowly came back to. 

This car was not  _ Silver _ . It was Mike’s ‘66 Shelby Cobra.

He was  _ not  _ Big Bill. He was William Denbrough, the author that had began to lose his hair in his early twenties.

And Mike was thirty-eight years-old and sitting  _ next  _ to him in the passenger seat. 

He turned slowly, almost as if he didn’t want to, into a quaint little picnic area that sat on one side of the road. He huffed out a heavy breath.

“How was it?” Mike asked, a grin plastered on his face.

“I’m not going to lie, Mike. I think I got off on that,” responded, feeling the final traces of the euphoria from his fantasy recede.

“I hope for the love of God and my new leather seats you didn’t mean that seriously.” They laughed and then sat there for a while basking in the golden sun. They didn’t know how long they spent out there at the deserted picnic area, but when they finally came back to the land of the living, the sun was still in the sky and the idle purring of the Shelby had not drained the gasoline  _ all  _ the way. 

“Wanna take it home?” Bill asked amiably.

“Absolutely, Big Bill.” And Bill could not stop smiling on the ride. 


	18. Chapter 18

“Mike lied to us,” Ben commented, looking at the small lake they were circling. They had been walking for a little while in what they could tell was a straight line from Mike’s house. They had finally found the lake they had been promised when Eddie and Ben stuck wet leaves down the back of Richie’s shirt and then ran away in a random direction to get away from him as he fumed in anger.

“What makes you think that, Benlock Holmes?” Richie teased, nudging Ben with his elbow.

“This is a barely a lake  _ now _ , but it’s been filled up by all the rain New England got this spring,  _ asshole _ . Mike knew this was just a glorified puddle.”

“Say! A wild goose chase! What a  _ minx  _ that man is!” There was silence for a few moments.

“How do you even know that, Ben?” asked Eddie, genuinely curious. 

“Yeah, you some sort of lake wizard?”

“Yes, call me Pond-alf the Grey.”

“That was bad, Ben. Even by my standards.”

“Shut up, Richie,” he dismissed. “I built a house next to a lake once and I had to learn how lakes work and that shit.”

“ _ How Lakes Work and Other Shit _ , a self-help book by Ben Haystack Hanscom,” Richie quipped. They continued to circle the water until they got all the way around and descended into a shallow area that could  _ almost  _ be called a beach.

“Well, still looks good to me, puddle or lake regardless,” Richie yelped, taking off his shirt and shoes.

“Woah, Richie, no one wanted a Tozier-special strip show,” Eddie snapped jokingly and blushed.

“Yeah, Richie, I left all my ones at home,” Ben joined in.

“It’s fine, I take I-owe-you’s, just sit down and enjoy the show, ladies,” he wiggled his hips humorously. And then… 

_ Splash.  _

“Fuck, it’s nice,” Richie commented after gurgling pond water out of his mouth. Ben and Eddie stood apprehensively on the shore, looking between a drenched Richie and the pile of his shirt, shoes, and socks next to them.

“You don’t know what’s in there, Richie,” Eddie informed, crouching down to look at the edge of the water.

“What, did you watch Jaws recently? I know it’s scary Eds… but I prrromise eet is verrry safe!”

“That’s not what I mean,” Eddie poked an uneasy finger through the surface of the water. “And don’t call me Eds, I’m fucking 38 years old.”

“Okay, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“I swear Richie I  _ will  _ pummel you.” Ben laughed next to him.

“Eddie don’t you see what he’s doi--”

“Come pummel me then, I doubt you can… _ Spaghetti Head _ ” Richie teased.

“I told you…” Ben mused with a smirk.

“I  _ swear _ , Richie,” Eddie started taking his shoes off.

“Eddie--” Ben started, and then realized seeing how this went without intervening seemed like the greatest entertainment he could think of.

“You don’t seem so sure, Ed Head.” Eddie pretty much ripped his shirt off and hung it on a tree branch nearby and then tossed his shoes to the side. Eddie tried to act tough as he cautiously waded through the water, but everyone knew he hated it.

“I’m coming,” Eddie said, making mock grabbing motions with his fingers.

“I’m  _ so  _ scared. My grandmother could beat you into the water, and she’s  _ dead _ , Eddie-steady-go.”

“Well it’s fucking  _ gross  _ man. Do you know what kind of shit could be on the bottom? Broken bottles and sharp cans and shit. It  _ does  _ look like the kinda place seventeen year olds come to drink.”

“With Mike’s house less than half a mile away? I think the  _ fuck  _ not,” Ben laughed out. He had sat down on a rock by the shore and seemed to be struggling with whether or not he wanted to take his shoes off to get in.

“Fuck this, Eds,” Richie called impatiently. He waded forwards and grabbed Eddie’s wrist, he gave it a hearty tug.

“Richie, I swear to  _ Go _ \--” But then his mouth, face, and the rest of his body was under the murky water.

“ _ Shit! _ He’s going to fucking  _ slaughter  _ you!” Ben cackled, leaning back, as Eddie pulled himself out of the lake water like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

“It’s not bad, is it, Swamp Thing?” Eddie glared at him for a few moments in which Richie thought he saw actual anger, not the fake rage employed previously, but then Eddie’s face cracked with a smile.

“You’re going  _ down to the bottom _ , Trashmouth.”

“Kinky,” Richie choked out before Eddie threw himself at him. Richie thought little of Eddie’s potential to do any  _ real  _ damage, since Eddie was still as small and skinny as he had been as a kid. But once he had clambered on top of him, Richie sank like a rock.

Ben looked amusedly at the part of the lake’s surface where a cauldron of bubbly water swarmed around the two flailing bodies. 

_ Beep Beep Beeeep _ .

“Richie!” he called out, leaning down and digging into Richie’s pile of clothes for the orange pill container he saw him put there earlier. He shook them and yelled again, “ _ Richie! _ ”

“Yeah, man?” Richie and Eddie paused their play-fighting and whipped their heads at Ben.

“I think the notification for your meds just went off?” he asked, pointing a finger at the container in his other hand.

“What? What time is it?”

“Like, almost three, I think?”

“Yeah, that isn’t my meds then, check my phone.” Ben did and his phone hadn’t had a notification since around half an hour earlier, it was a text from  _ Jean #2 From Work  _ that said ‘when are you coming back ;)?’ Ben was repulsed. 

“No, nothing but some chick you’re obviously hooking up with from work. Gross, dude.”

“Jean Two or Becky One?”

“Jean Two.”

“Oh no, that’s a serious thing, then. Can you text her back saying, like,  _ soon, baby-girl _ ?” Eddie tackled him again in disgust.

“I think the  _ fuck  _ not,” Ben said to himself. Then he walked over to Eddie’s stuff a few feet away and grabbed his phone, there was a notification from Bev.

“Eddie, it was your phone, something from Bev.”

“See if it’s important then, open it and respond if it is, unless it’s nudes, then don’t.”

“ _ What the fuck, Eds? _ ” Richie scolded.

“I don’t know, you never know with a woman like Bev. Pretty chill gal.”

“You’re sick.”

“ _ I’m  _ sick? That was a joke! Poor  _ Jean Number Two From Work  _ isn’t a joke!” They started to tackle again.

Ben looked at the screen and the message was asking where they were.

“It’s not nudes, Eddie,” Ben clarified. 

“I  _ know  _ it’s not, idiot!” he chuckled. “Password is 7424.”

“Thanks,” he replied, unlocking the phone.

_ At the lake behind Mike’s house -Ben _

  1. _stan and i just got back from the mall. join?_



_ For sure, you’re missing out on R and E pretty much flirting pretty hard _

_ literally will RUN there now _

_ Ya, like when they were kids _

_ share your location? so we can find you _

_ Here, did that work? _

_ yup, thanks. see y’all in ten or so _

_ Walk around the field, the middle is muddy and Stan will get his shoes dirty _

_ he says thanks _

Bev and Stan got there fairly quickly, coming over the crest of the hill before the ‘beach.’ 

“Hey folks” Stan called amiably.

When they got there, Ben was standing a few feet into the water, his jeans rolled up halfway up his calves, skipping rocks that weren’t good for skipping. Eddie was sat at the shore, still in his slim-fit jeans, now soaked and stained with mud.

Richie had his head laid on Eddie’s thighs with his hands making abstract shapes and arm’s length above him shouting in a faux defeated tone:

“Oh, sire, you bested me! You bested me like the plebeian I am! Oh, sire!” On repeat a few times. Eddie looked uncomfortable but content.

“Bevvie! Stan the Man!” Richie seemed pleased.

“Hey, guys,” Bev waved at them all.

“Wait! Now we have enough people for chicken!” Richie yelped, shooting up from Eddie’s lap. Eddie was disappointed slightly, but no one noticed.

“No, we just ate. Also I don’t know why you need lots of people to eat chi--”

“ _ Stanley! _ ” Bev jested, bursting into giggles.

“ _ Oh! _ ”

“I’m totally in,” Eddie approved, nodding his head. “You two are in, right?”

“We have an odd number,” Stan informed. “I’ll be ref, these clothes are new and I don’t want to get them dirty.”

“I noticed, looking spiffy, my man! The  _ new  _ face of Calvin-Klein! But, fair enough I guess,” Richie got to his feet and gave a hand to Eddie to pull him up too.

“Also,” Bev started, holding up the stop-and-shop bags she and Stan had brought, “we brought booze. So maybe,  _ just maybe _ , I won’t remember that I’m about to do this.”

And so Bev and Ben joined the fray. When Bev took off her blouse and pants to reveal a bathing suit everyone agreed she had cheated, proper aquatic attire would give her an unfair advantage, but she told them she’d go easy on them (the grin alongside the comment was lamented by Bev, Richie, and Eddie alike) and got in anyway. No one, to Bev’s surprise, commented on her bruises that marked her body in some places like cow patches. Everyone noticed, and everyone had an inkling towards where they might have originated from, but no one mentioned them out of courtesy.

The game of chicken lasted not much more than half an hour before everyone’s shoulders were sore and they were sick of being wet. First, Eddie had perched on Richie’s shoulders, but they were no match to Bev’s strength on top of Ben.

And so they switched, the epic battle that commenced between Richie on Ben’s shoulders and Eddie on Bev’s was one to rival the ages, at least in their world, but it was short lived; a mutual stalemate was called and they all dragged themselves to the shore.

“So ref, who one?” Ben looked at Stan expectantly. Stan put down his bird book which he had been flipping through casually.

“Well,” he started, “Richie and Ben made the stronger duo, but Bev and Eddie were lighter and faster.” Stan pretended like this was a serious topic so much he actually believed it was, just like he had done back in 1984. “Richie and Ben were more calculated, since they had to try and beat Bev and Eddie’s speed, but that only meant Bev and Eddie were more adaptable.”

“So, what’s the final verdict, almighty judge?” Richie asked, a childish hope gleamed in his eyes.

“I give the attack game to you guys but the defense game to Bev and Ben.”

“So no one won?” Eddie concluded.

“It was equally matched,” Stan finalized.

“I call bullshit, I want a rematch,” Richie blurted out.

“Maybe another time, Trashmouth,” Bev bubbled. “Let’s get back and see if the other two are back from wherever they were.”

They had only managed to finish a six-pack by the time they got back to Mike’s place, everyone had had one (even if Stan barely got through half of his) and Richie had had two. Some of them helped each other down half a bottle of vodka, somehow, too.

They were quite the sight, to Bill and Mike, when they stumbled through the door like

_ (clowns out of a clown car!) _

a river. Wet and babbling. 

“I can’t  _ believe  _ you changed into a bathing suit, Bev.”

“Well I didn’t want to get my clothes wet.”

“What a luxury!” Richie exclaimed, motioning towards his still very damp pants.

“What the  _ fuck  _ happened to you guys?” Mike queried, looking them up and down from his seat on the couch. He had been reading a book.

“We found Atlantis!” bubbled a boozed-up Eddie childishly. Obviously not a huge drinker, the one beer had got him significantly tipsier than the rest. 

“Yeah,” continued Richie. “We would have called for you guys to check it out but they didn’t have reception down there.”

“Also our phones fried,” Bev added.

“What the  _ fuck  _ are you guys on about?” Bill puzzled from the dining room table, he was writing a draft for a new book old-school style, in a composition notebook.

Stan, the least drunk of them all, told them what had happened as the others trickled out of the room to their respective rooms to shower. Then he added they had all downed some booze on the way back, he gestured to the significant amount still left in the bags they had brought back.

“We’ll have it over dinner, then. What do you think about chinese take-out?” Mike asked.

“Sure, but it’s only like five o’clock?”

“Bill and I think we should probably get an early night today… we’re here for a reason and that has to happen tomorrow.” Bill agreed and moved to sit on the armchair. Stan sat on the recliner.

“Woah, that puts a damper on the evening, huh?” Stan grimaced. 

“It has to happen,” Bill started, “or else other kids could be killed and it would be our fault.”

“I understand, but… but do you think…?” Stan knew, and so did everyone else, without it having to be said, that this fight would be extremely dangerous, probably even fatal. They weren’t kids; they couldn’t fight It, that’s how it worked.

“No, we’re not ready. We aren’t nearly as close as we once were, but not doing what we need to do expends time and lives we can’t afford.”

_ (your time! your lives!) _

“So tonight is our last chance to… to…”

“To recreate a childhood bond that some of us made over the course of eleven years,” Bill said flatly.

“And we’re not even kids,” Mike amended.

“Well, the way I see it, that’s a good thing.” Bill and Mike looked at Stan confused. Stan pointed to the bags by the door. “Truth serum. They say honesty is the way to anyone’s heart, right?”

“Are you saying you want to pump us full of booze the night before we have to fight 

_ (off your death!) _

some sort of demon?”

“Maybe not  _ super  _ boozed-up, we have to remember the night, after all.” Stan looked at them, waiting for an answer.

“Stan, you don’t seem like the kind of guy that likes to drink--”

“I  _ hate  _ it. I  _ hate  _ not being in control. But this  _ really  _ is the only option, there are some secrets floating in this circle that need to get out, but people aren’t willing to say them without encouragement.”

“Stan, I don’t like this idea--”

“Me neither….” Stan conceded. “You’re right. And with Richie too, we’d never get him to stop, it’d be dangerous,” he let out quietly. He had managed come off the idea. Maybe it was Bill and Mike’s opposition, probably it was his  _ own  _ inner proposition.

“We’ll play it by ear,” Mike started, a plan formulated slowly in his head like a time-lapsed puzzle. “The three of us will try to orchestrate some sort of confession-telling situation, but that sounds ridiculous even in theory, and if not… I hate the idea, but I also hate the idea of kids dying because we wouldn’t act.”

“Me too. If it needs to happen then…” Bill trailed off.

“This might sound crazy,” Stan vacillated, “but I have a feeling that if someone starts it…”

“Everyone else will join,” Mike finished. “I think that’ll happen, too.”

“I don’t know what you guys mean--”

“Bill,” Stan looked directly at him. “ _ You  _ have to start it.”

“What?”

“You  _ have  _ to.”

“He’s right, Bill.”

“I don’t understand, guys.”

“You’re  _ Big Bill _ . You were--  _ are  _ our leader in all of this. Back then we followed your orders, and if we’re gonna be the kids we were back then, we have to do it again.”

“It’ll work, I don’t know why it will, but it will. The closer we get, the tighter we make that circle we created in 1984, the more similar we become to the kids we were. If you lead us, we’ll get there.” The room was silent for a little while after this. Stan looked at Bill expectantly, waiting to see if he would agree or disagree to the proposed notion. Mike looked straight ahead, pondering over if what he said actually made any sense or not; he decided it didn’t, but he believed it anyway. Bill let the idea of his leadership flow through his mind blankly before his inner voice came out and said something he wasn’t even thinking about.

“There’s this thing I  _ hate  _ when I write,” he started, his mouth working at a speed his mind couldn’t stop. “I call it  _ lazy intuition _ . It’s when a writer is too lazy to make a character learn something gradually so they make them believe a thing purely on intuition. It’s like taking a gut feeling but putting it on supernatural steroids.

“I thought I hated it because it was lazy writing. I mean it is, but that’s besides the point. But now I think I hate it because I’ve felt it all my life. I believe you guys, and not just because I  _ think  _ what you’re saying will work, but because I  _ know _ it will. It’s  _ lazy intuition  _ in real life, and that’s terrifying.”

“It feels like someone put the thought into your head,” Mike agreed.

“Or it’s residual from something that happened long ago…” Stan uttered.


	19. Chapter 19

The three had not told the others of their plan, it was ironic really, they kept a secret from the others in order to make them spill all their secrets. 

An anxious hour later, Mike and Bev left briefly and returned with bags and bags of chinese takeout, also, some chinese beer to add to their already impressive booze collection.

“What’s all the booze out for?” Eddie asked as they all sat down to eat, he looked at the assortment of noodles, chicken, rice, beef, dumplings, and vegetables with a look of pure ecstasy and hunger on his face.

“For a good time, obviously, Eds,” Richie responded, grabbing his chopsticks and ripping them apart ceremoniously. The rest did the same.

“God  _ fucking  _ dammit!” Bill effused. “My chopsticks never break apart the right way, the little wooden block always goes with one of them and never breaks down the middle.” The rest of the Losers laughed. They dug in and for a while and they were in bliss. That moment came to a close soon, however.

“So, should we talk about the elephant in the room?” Ben looked around the table, as if searching for a face of sanity in the conversation he was about to start.

“Soon,” Mike coughed out, maybe a little too quickly. “For now we need to focus on getting closer. We need to be more emotionally prepared, I guess.”

“And how do we know when that’s happened?” Bev asked calmly after taking a bite out of a dumpling.

“I guess when we forget we’re adults and have other responsibilities. When we feel free like kids,” Bill tried, looking down at his plate of sesame chicken and lo mein.

“Well, I mean, I’m not exactly  _ hating  _ this little vacation, but  _ free?  _ Seems a little far?” Richie asked cautiously. 

“I don’t know if that’s possible, to be honest,” Eddie commented.

“I think it’s when we all trust each other,” Stan interjected. “When we would save each other’s lives, like when we were kids. When we would have  _ died  _ for each other. Trust, honesty, and truth.”

“Anyone have any secrets they want to tell all casual-like, then?” Richie joked. And after a few moments of silence, he replied to his own question: “I’ll tell you one. Chinese food is a  _ lot  _ better in LA than here, I’ll give ya’ that wun fo’ free!”

Another awkward silence filled the spaces between them. Beverly and Stan sat next to each other and looked more uncomfortable than the rest, but no one really looked up from their plates long enough to notice. 

“Maybe it shouldn’t be a joke, then?” Bill asked with trepidation, careful to not seem too forward.

“Bill, I don’t think anyone is going to outright tell anyone their greatest-kept secret by just asking,” Bev responded to her mushroom beef, it would seem.

“Well no one else is trying.” Moments flowed by like thick molasses in the air, the soft tapping of chopsticks against the ceramic plates was broken from time to time with a nervous chuckle as food slipped from the grasp of a Loser’s chopsticks and fell to their plate.

“I sure can tell no one here’s Chinese, can’t even use the damn chopsticks right!” Richie said in the Southern Farmer Voice. But that was all that was said for a little while.

_ Tap tappity tap. _

Bill looked around and the bowed faces of his friends

_ Tap tap tap tappity tap tap tappity tap. _

and he saw their sewn-shut lips and trained eyes.

_ Tappity tap tap tap tappity. _

He saw the haze of discomfort and uneasiness that had fallen on them like a snow storm.

_ Tappity tap tap tap-- _

They all stopped and stared as Bill’s chair shot back and squealed along the floorboards. He walked briskly to the kitchen, searched around for a few moments, and came back with two hands full of shot glasses which he pretty much threw on the table. 

He paced to the kitchen and grabbed one, two, two and a half bottles of vodka from the counter and slapped them in the middle of the table.

“This is ridiculous guys,” he muttered to them as he handed everyone a shot glass. “If we need alcohol to get  _ any  _ sort of conversation going then we-- and the children of Derry-- are in a bad place.”

“What are you saying, Bill?” Eddie tried to ask in his calmest voice.

“I’m saying we get shitfaced tonight and have a great time and then we worry about life tomorrow.”

“Truth or Dare or Drink?” Richie proposed, grabbing a vodka bottle and giving everyone ample liquid.

“I’m down.”

“Sure.”

“One-hundred percent.”

“Yup.”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes.”

And so it began. Nobody, not even Stan, seemed averse to the idea, somewhere in their minds they knew this was their only choice.

Richie first insisted that everyone take a preliminary shot, to  _ loosen up the old jaw muscles  _ as he put it. And so they did. At first they were going to rock-paper-scissors it out to see who would go first, but Mike and Stan both volunteered Bill and everyone agreed.

And so now it  _ really  _ began.

The last supper.

Or the last for the Loser’s club, at least.

“I choose Eddie.”

“Okay, hit me!”

“Truth or dare?”

“Um… truth!” he said bravely, understanding the point of the game.

“Is there a Myra to go back home to?”

“Excuse me, Bill?” Bill knew it was a bombshell to start off with, and he also knew Eddie would not answer the question, maybe not without more drinks in him, at least, but he just wanted to set the standard. He recognized the weird tense state Eddie got in when he talked about Myra, he was hiding something.

“You heard me.”

“Drink.” With two quick taps on the table, Richie poured him a shot, and he downed it with a small grimace at the end.

“I choose Bev,” he said almost instantly.

“Dammit, Eddie. I knew you would,” she giggled out.

“Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.”

“Pull your sweater over your right shoulder.” Bev looked a little scared at first, but she glanced quickly at Stan, who also knew (like the rest of the Losers who were at the lake, even if they hadn’t talked about it) that her bruises were the worst on her right shoulder and arm, and he gave her a look that almost spoke,  _ they’re battle scars, if you can show them, it means you won the battle, and that’s nothing worth hiding _ . 

And so she did it, exposing her battle scars to the Losers. Bill gasped audibly. Mike placed a hand over his mouth. She moved on as soon as she had done it:

“Mike.”

“My turn, is it?”

“Yes-sir-e, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Why did you stay in Derry?” The question was a heavy one. It was also something the rest of the Losers had been wondering since they had gotten his call.

“Someone had to, I guess,” was his response. It fooled no one.

“That’s not good enough,” Bev implored, shooting him a comforting smile.

“Well I guess that’s drink for me then,” Mike deflected. He tapped the table twice and Richie pushed the bottle along the table at him. While Mike took a drink a few of the other Losers started to pile the rest of the takeout in a pile at the far end of the table.

“Okay,” Mike let out, slamming the glass back down to the table. “Am I allowed to go back to someone?”

“I don’t see why not,” Richie answered, he had become the resident truth or dare or drink expert.

“Bill,” started Mike again. Bill groaned. “ _ Did  _ you and Stan fuck last night?”

“What the  _ fuck  _ guys? I haven’t seen Stan in, like, twenty-seven years!”

“And? What do you think one-night-stands are for?”

“Hey!” Stan shouted, offended.

“So what is it, Big Bill?”

“We did  _ not  _ fuck.”

“Take a drink,” Richie instructed. He leaned back in his chair and pointed an accusatory finger at Bill, laughing to himself.

“What? Why? That’s not the rules?”

“It wasn’t convincing enough. What can I say? I  _ do  _ make the rules.”

“Fuck you, Richie. Fine. Stan,” he poured himself a shot and downed it quickly, his eyes instantly switched from Richie to Stan.

“ _ Did  _ we fuck?”

“Did you just decide truth for me, Bill? That isn’t how the--”

“I gave you an easy one anyway, you should be thanking me.”

“Well if you’re going to be a jerk about it,” Stan smiled at Bill coyly, he rapped the table twice quickly and let out a pretentious ‘thanks’ after Richie had poured him a drink. He took it quickly, even Stan was surprised he didn’t have to take his eyes off of Bill to grimace.

“Fuck you, Stan.”

“ _ That’s what we're saying! _ ” Eddie exploded, the others burst into laughter.

“I hate you all,” Bill fell back into his chair, defeated.

“As do I,” Stan commented after washing down the vodka with a glass of water.

“Stan the No-Drink Man really went for that, didn’t he?” Richie asked to the room. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” He patted Stan on the back.

“Well it’s only because I wanted to fuck with Bill--”

“Stan, you’re not helping,” Bill snapped good-heartedly.

“--From now on I’m a truth-telling  _ machine _ .”

“Everybody ask Stan the  _ worst  _ questions, let’s get him buzzed off his--” Richie got cut off.

“Richie…” Bev pleaded. 

“I  _ know  _ I  _ know _ ,” Richie said, putting his hands up in a surrender pose. “I was kidding.” Stan thanked Bev with a quick glance. 

“Well, the power’s in  _ my  _ hands now,” Stan joked, scanning the table for his victim and rubbing his hands together evilly.

“Richie…” he said, sounding unsure. 

“Yes, Stan the Man?”

“How’s the love life? Any--” Eddie and Ben snorted, remembering the events at the lake before Stan and Beverly had come. “Am I missing something?”

“The love life’s… not a huge focus right now, Stan. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” But there was a reason, he flicked his eyes at Eddie and wiggled his eyebrows surreptitiously, but Eddie didn’t really understand what it meant.

“Well thank you for this immense and great responsibility,” he said. He folded his hand into a mock gun and pointed it at the other Losers. “Who’m’I gon shoot with mah truth gun this time ‘round?”

The barrel of the gun, really just Richie’s index and middle fingers, landed squarely on Ben. Ben put his hands up as if the gun was real.

“Please don’t shoot me, sir!”

“Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.”

“Ooh, that’s not what I was expecting… lemme think.” Richie raised a finger to his chin in a cliche pose of thought. “Aha! I  _ dare  _ you to take three shots!”

“Um… I think I’ll drink instead.”

“What the fuck, Richie?” Stan shouted, holding back giggles. He couldn’t believe Richie could be so foolish.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t think that through.” Richie begrudgingly poured Ben a shot and he took it, his face contorting only slightly.

“You know what? I’ll compromise and have one more,” Ben said with a grin on his face. He tapped the table twice and Richie was quick to pour the vodka. 

“For the love of the game!” Richie beamed in a  _ great  _ British accent.

“For the love of the game!” Ben repeated, following it with the shot. Now Ben realized he had to make a decision. He looked around and his eyes fell quickly on Richie again.

“Fuck of, right? Seriously? Me again?” Richie’s eyes went wide and already he was reaching for the vodka. “Fine, but I’m not the only one that’s going to suffer. I’m putting a new rule in place!” Everybody groaned. “If you double back on a person that just asked you something, everybody drinks.”

“What? How’s that fair!” Stan rasped.

“It isn’t.” Richie sent Stan a wink with that comment. Eddie didn’t seem pleased with the action, but again, no one noticed. 

Everyone, however, was in a pretty good mood and was having a great time so they drank. Richie, trying to be nice, purposefully poured Stan significantly less than he poured the rest of the Losers.

“Okay, Ben, just hit me, then. Truth,” a now-significantly boozed up Richie hollered. 

“Any kids?” Richie was surprised by the question, and so was Ben, he hadn’t even thought about what he was going to ask. A silence fell on the room as Richie wondered what he was going to say. He knew it, and the rest of the Losers knew it, at this point they had all drank enough that they really shouldn’t be taking anymore shots… so he would have to think of his answer carefully.

“Once upon a time I wanted some,” his voice was quiet and several Losers leaned forward in their chairs to meet his words. “I was with this great girl and she  _ really  _ wanted kids and I kind of thought I wanted them too, maybe… a little… I don’t know…”

“But it never happened, right?” Bill asked carefully, looking at Richie cautiously. He nodded.

“Me and Audra wanted kids and we tried and  _ tried  _ and we never got any of the little fuckers. We got ourselves checked and-- and… well there was nothing wrong…” Bev thought of something and a chill ran down her spine, she asked cautiously:

“Is that when--”

“Audra and I split up after that, it was too much stress. We both wanted kids and we couldn’t have them together. But we never told anyone, not even our families, it was too--”

“Embarrassing, right?” Mike interjected. “I know the feeling. You asked why I never left Derry, right?” He took in a big, shuddering breath. “I dated this woman for a while, she worked downtown at the bank. At some point we decided on kids, but we couldn’t have any, just like you.” His eyes glimmered with the signs of early tears. “So we… got help? I don’t know, a  _ sperm donor _ , okay? And we were seven months in, two months away from our baby girl and then-- and then--  _ I lost her _ .”

“Oh, Mike, man. You lost the baby? I’m so fucking sor--” 

“No, Ben. I lost  _ her _ , my  _ wife _ . She died in a car crash and it took the baby too,” Mike’s voice was ripe with sorrow and his tears drew silver lines down his cheeks. “ _ I lost my love… _ ” he muttered softly. Bev reached over and hugged him closely, Mike leaned into her gratefully. There was a few moments of silence before anyone spoke again.

“I met the love of my life,” Ben started, taking a drink of water. “And we were set to marry and everything, the date was five months away… but then she told me she  _ never  _ wanted kids.  _ Ever _ .” Ben seemed fairly composed, as if he had rehearsed the speech before to avoid breaking down. “After that I couldn’t find a single woman who wanted kids,  _ not a single goddamn one _ . After that, I kind of…”

“Gave up?” It was Eddie’s turn to talk and his voice surprised everyone, he had been fairly quiet the entire evening. “Myra and I started trying two years ago. No luck, like all of you. We gave up, like, half a year ago, and we haven’t been in a good place emotionally.” Stan reached over and placed an arm over Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him towards him. “And, Bill, you were right. I don’t know how, but you  _ were _ . Me leaving without saying where I was going was the last straw, we broke up right before I left. I have  _ no  _ goddamn  _ fucking  _ idea where the  _ shit  _ I’m going after we kill It.” His speech was punctuated with words that he shot out as he cried, his breath heaving in and out in short bursts. 

“I know how you feel, Eddie,” Stan said next to him, looking through his watery, half-lidded eyes. “I never wanted kids, and whenever anybody ever found out they’d break up with me. I can’t blame them, honestly, if you want kids then you have to get with someone that wants them too, that’s how it works. But, it still hurt…”

“Bev?” Bill asked cautiously, after leaving a few moments for Eddie and Stan to attempt to compose themselves. 

“Tom… he… didn’t really care, I guess? We never-- never… y’know… had…”

“Protection?” Bill proposed hesitantly. “Bev, you don’t need to hold back… it’s us--”

“ _He was a fucking monster, okay, Bill?_ Is that what you _fucking_ wanted? Every time we _fucked_ he never used protection _because he didn’t like how it felt._ Alright, Bill? Is that what you wanted? To hear me _fucking explode?_ ” Tears were now also falling from her eyes, they curved around her cheekbones and slowly eroded at the hint of blush she had there, taking the makeup down her face and onto her neck. “He didn’t like the way _it fucking felt_ but never asked me what _I_ wanted, did he, Bill? _Everytime_ I told him I’d get pregnant if he kept doing that _shit_ ,” she leaned forwards and placed her arms flatly on the table, “but then he’d _hit me_ or _fucking whip me_ or some shit and tell me we’d just give the baby _away_.” But now the anger in her voice melted away swiftly, and was replaced by an even scarier sorrow. “Like some _object_ , like an old _bike_ , or pair of _shoes_.” She broke down, much like how the rest of them had. 

Bill a walked over to her, at first swiftly, and then he slowed down when he got close. He leaned into her ear and whispered something the other Losers didn’t hear. Her face changed somehow, as he told her this, it went from crooked and tortured with pain to relieved, somehow at peace. She shot upwards and drew him into a huge embrace.

The rest of the Losers drew out the breaths they had held in their chests for the entire exchange. Bill and Bev remained in the embrace until both of their shaking had subsided, then they let go of one another and Bev let out a soft ‘Thank you, Bill’ before he returned to his seat. But Bev remained standing, everyone sat with bated breath once again as they waited to hear what she would say next.

“I stayed with Tom for nine years…” her voice was brittle and frail from the crying, but carried a raw sense of strength. Survivor’s strength. “Because… I guess, because he did horrible things to me…” she lowered her blouse down her arm to show more of her battlescars. No one dared interrupt her to try and mend the holes in her speech. “… but I still loved him, somehow. Like my father before him… he told me… that he did  _ it  _ to protect me, to teach me how to be… I don’t even know… to be  _ good _ .” She breathed in, maybe thinking about what she was going to say next, maybe convincing herself to say it. “I’m not weak. I promise. I didn’t stay with him because I wasn’t strong enough to-- to-- to leave.” Her crying had come again, and her tears ran down her face, framing her mouth as it talked. Before she could sit down, she felt hands on her shoulders.

It was Stan.

“Stan…” she said briskly when she saw what he was doing. He was neatly folding up his sleeves. She let out a quick ‘you don’t have to do this…’ before she realized she  _ had  _ to let him do this. She knew she had to. He knew she would let him.

“Stan…” but this time it was Bill, calling his name breathily. If the situation had been any less grave, Beverly would have wondered how Bill knew what Stan was about to do. But she let the comment slip. Stan had finished, he had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and then pushed them higher up his arms.

It was hard for some of the Losers to see, but they knew what was there, even without seeing it. Stan let his arms hang down at his sides, the flats of his forearms facing straight forward towards the rest of the Losers.

Then he felt Bev’s hand, who was still standing next to him, close enough so their arms touched, snake into his own, and together they stood like expositions.  _ This is what survivors look like _ , the metaphorical plaque next to them read.

“I’m tired of feeling weak because of these,” Stan said calmly, reaching his unoccupied hand to brush over the silver lines that sat neatly on his forearm. “Weak because I was weak to get them, and weak because I have to be ashamed of them.”

“Weak because we couldn’t overcome what gave them to us,” Bev amended. The silence that followed the confessions lingered because all seven members of the Losers’ Club deemed it appropriate, no words could have an impact like the lack of words could.

When Stan and Bev sat down again, it was a sign that the rest could talk.

“No one here would ever come close to giving you scars like those…” Eddie told them. Although his words were generic and unconvincing, is tone spoke novels. His voice carried genuine care and affection that resounded within every one of the Losers. His next words were muttered with embarrassment and maybe a hint of fright. “If it helps, I think I have a crush on Richie.” As soon as he said that he clapped his hands over his mouth as if the words just flew from his mouth without his consent. His eyes were saucers.

“ _ What? _ ” Bev’s mouth was wide and smiling with amusement and surprise. 

“The _ fuck? _ ” Richie’s voice had surprise in it much like Bev’s, but it had something else in it too, something none of them could place… 

“I thought we were having a judge-free honesty zone or whatever… Look, I don’t know how it happened, I mean… it’s  _ Richie  _ for fuck’s sake--”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, Richie,” Eddie let out meekley. 

“No, I get it, Eds. I’m gorgeous, charming, and  _ hilarious _ . I’m sure the rest of the gang is also in love with me.”

“That’s not what I said, Richie.” Richie just smiled in return at Eddie. It wasn’t Richie’s usual mischievous, cocky grin, it was an authentic and tender smile that warmed Eddie’s heart to his fingertips, which until now had been frozen with embarrassment. 

Then Richie leaned back in his chair, pushing his mess of hair back and laughing a coy and confident snicker. Eddie pretty much died right there.

“This evening took a turn I was  _ not  _ expecting…” Bill spoke genially and everybody laughed in response. 

After this some of the Losers turned their attention to their non-alcoholic drinks from earlier in the night, some others started picking at the food they hadn’t finished before, and the rest sat calmly, enjoying the rest from the drama.

“I guess this is it?” Mike stated, looking at the others one-by-one slowly. 

“What do you mean?” asked Ben, worry lacing his words.

“This is-- this is probably the last time we’re all going to be together, like this,” Mike choked out, playing awkwardly with the rim of his wineglass. He dragged his finger through two full revolutions around it before anyone said anything else.

“Unless we can’t finish the job…” Eddie rasped out, his throat feeling tight with traces of asthma for the first time in fifteen years. 

“If we can’t finish the job…” Stan started slowly, “then it  _ will  _ be the last time we’re ever together. It’ll be the last time we’re ever  _ anything _ . There isn’t a third chance.” And with that, a dread loomed forebodingly over the little circle they had formed around the table. 

“We can’t let that happen,” Bill said flatly. “We just can’t.” And everybody nodded shallowly in tentative and anxious agreement. Stan nodded the shallowest, his head barely moving at all.

“What if it does, Bill? What if we don’t make it out and it comes back in twenty-seven years?” asked Bev, instinctively going to Bill for answers, like they all did.

“Then we failed twice.”

“We can’t let that happen,” this time it was Richie and Ben in unison. In any other situation, Richie would have cracked a joke about their sync and they all would have laughed. He couldn’t even  _ think  _ of a joke now.

“Is this when we split up? Is this when we each go to our own rooms and this--  _ us _ \-- ends?” Bev sounded hurt when she said that, as if this was a personal attack.

“I guess so.”

“I don’t want to. I  _ can’t _ . Not again.” And the tears came again, for everybody. Bev leaned into Mike and he seemed unsure of what to do, no matter how hard he hugged her or what he said he couldn’t stop her or his own crying.

Eddie seemed content to curl his legs against his chest and bury his head into his arms and be alone in his moment of grief. When he would pull his head up a few minutes later, he would notice that his tears had run down his arms and made dark spots on his knees.

Stan sat rigid in his chair, using napkin after napkin to dry the tears he couldn’t muster up the strength to stop. His breaths were shaky and uncertain, and despite the fact that he was sitting down, his knees felt weak. He continuously pushed back his once-neat curls on the top of his bowed head every time they fell in front of his eyes.

Richie leaned his elbows into the table and buried his face into his hands, as if trying to catch the tears that streamed from his eyes. Later that night, before laying down for what was going to be an inevitably restless night, he would notice in the mirror that his eyes were stained with the red of crying. As soon as it started, he felt Bill’s arm lay comfortingly across the back of his hunched shoulders. Even Bill’s arm was shuddering.

Ben, even though he was crying as uncontrollably as the others, was the first to compose himself and try to command order in this court of sorrow.

He got up and brought a new bottle of cold water from the fridge, along with seven new glasses. One-by-one he filled each up and moved them in front of every Loser.

“Water’s good-- good for crying. You lose… a lot of water crying, y’know?” His voice came out a lot less steady than he had wanted it, the residual fucked-up breathing pattern from crying still plagued his speech.

The others thanked him nonverbally, when he gave Eddie his water, Eddie shot up and hugged him quickly. Ben was surprised at first, but felt colder once Eddie sat down again. He returned to his own seat. Slowly, the other Loser began to get a grip on their emotions, but even after everyone had stopped sobbing, they all still felt like they were drowning in their tears which had flooded the room.

“I think I’m going to go to bed…” Bill hesitated. He began to get up but stopped when Beverly snapped:

“No. Not yet… please.”

“Yeah, Bill. I’m-- I’m not ready. Not yet,” Eddie whispered.

“We’re going to be together tomorrow--”

“Not like this,” Ben sniffled. “Not as friends.”

“Tomorrow we’re soldiers. Not friends,” Mike noted after a deep inhalation. 

“Okay,” Bill agreed, plopping himself back down on his chair. After a few minutes of silence, Stan got up casually and began to collect the take-out containers and trash. He brought them to the kitchen counter and organized them carefully.

_ Empty ones go  _ here _ , ones with food go  _ here _.  _

“Mike, do you have a recycling bin?” he called, it seemed perfectly natural, as if he  _ hadn’t  _ spent the better part of the last ten minutes weeping.

“Yes.” Surprisingly, Mike’s voice came out calm also. “It’s just outside the door.” Mike pointed towards the screen door that led out onto the wrap-around porch in the corner of the kitchen. Stan opened it and bent his body around the doorframe, looking for the bin.

“I see it, thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem, Stan.” Their voices, although steady and relaxed, where somber and weighed down. Everyone noticed.

It took Stan three trips to clear the table and correctly dispose of the empty containers and place the unfinished ones in the fridge.

On the second trip Eddie and Ben got up and helped him.

On the third the rest of them did. 

When the table was cleared, Bev and Mike wordlessly dampened two rags and went to clean the it. Stan followed them a few moments later and pushed the chairs in, all equidistant from and parallel to the table.

Ben and Eddie washed the dishes in the sink, Eddie made sure that both Ben and him scrubbed them to the proper caliber in the correct way to minimize the spread of germs. 

Bill and Richie, both lost at first as to how to contribute, first stored the containers in the fridge that were still partially full, and then started to tidy the kitchen in which they had made a mess since the previous night. 

No one had spoken a word, but they all moved amongst each other, divvying up jobs, and avoiding bumping into each other in the relatively small kitchen, as if they were a single cohesive unit. Mike saw this, acknowledging it.

_ We’re ready _ .

_ (no! NO!) _

But he said nothing, he continued his job normally. Without even thinking, he stepped forward and Bev moved passed behind him to scrub the other side of the table.  _ I didn’t even see her there _ .

Bev walked into the kitchen and thoughtlessly sidestepped as Richie quickly whipped around with a pile of plastic take-out tubs in his hands.  _ How did I know he would do that? _

After Richie had placed the containers he turned around and let the door close. Before he even knew what he was doing, he kicked a foot out behind him and caught the door in the crook of his ankle. He looked back and Eddie was leaning down to put a few beer cans into the fridge.  _ I didn’t even know Eds was heading to the fridge…  _

Finally they had finished after what seemed like an hour. The clock told the Losers it had been less than ten minutes.

Together they waltzed towards the living room, passing the table they had just been sitting at. Eddie fell into the recliner. Richie sat on the arm of the recliner. Ben, Bev, and Mike all found themselves in tight, but comfortable, proximity on the couch. Bill offered Stan the armchair and he took it thankfully. Bill himself pulled a chair from the table and straddled it backwards, he had his legs around the back and he leaned his arms on the top of the chair and his head on top of his arms. 

Still no one talked.

_ (don’t do it) _

They were all in there own heads, thinking about the day that laid in front of them like a twisted form of destiny.

_ (don’t! DON’T!) _

No one wanted to leave, no one wanted to depart from the comfortable silence and be left on their own, with their own heads, with their own  _ thoughts _ , about the next day.

_ (don’t… pl-please) _

But somehow they felt powerful, they felt like even without taking any action, they were doing their job.  _ They felt powerful  _ in each other's company.  _ They  _ felt powerful as they all sat in a circle around Mike’s coffee table. They  _ felt  _ powerful as they occasionally caught each other’s eyes and lingered there, appreciating the serenity they found in one another’s irises. They. Felt.  _ Powerful _ .

_ (i can’t suffer again! Don’t! I won’t LET you!) _

This was the most confident any of them had ever felt. Together they had a bond like none other. In this moment they felt inseparable. Not even death could unweave their circle.

_ (please no! NO!) _

Bill realized then that he had been sitting in complete silence. There wasn’t just a lack of words (for no one had talked since Stan asked where the trash was), but there was a lack of thoughts roaming his mind. It struck him as incredibly strange, since usually his mind ran tameless with ideas and feelings. He tried to fill it up.

_ I feel powerful.  _ We  _ feel powerful _ .

“Same,” a voice muttered. Bill was frozen, his eyes didn’t move, his lungs didn’t expand, and he was fairly sure even his blood didn’t flow through his veins. He didn’t dare look up to see who had uttered those words because he didn’t want to face the truth.

Because that voice didn’t belong to Bev, or Eddie, or Ben, or Richie, or Stan, or Mike;  _ It belonged to all of them _ .

_ They just spoke in unison _ , Bill cried within the safety of his own mind. Or so he thought.

“We did,” they all quivered.

“ _ What the fuck _ ?” This time Bill did not speak in his own mind, at the moment that place that birthed his stories and therefor his wealth had been infiltrated and so it was not a safe place to be. Too scared to return, he spoke out loud in a panicked tone. It wasn’t until later that he realized this had been a panic attack.

“What the hell just happened guys I said something in my head and then all of you heard it and you spoke at the same time and I don’t know what the  _ fuck  _  is going on and--”

“Bill,” it was Bev’s smooth, calming voice that he heard through his ears. “It’s going to be okay. I don’t know what just happened but--” But then Richie cried out again.

“ _ Eddie. Eds,  _ I just  _ heard  _ you say that?”

“Say what? What the  _ fuck  _ is going  _ on _ ?”

“ _ That!  _ I just heard you say ‘what the fuck’ but, like, in my  _ mind _ .”

“I heard it too,” Mike admitted. 

There was a moment then when the room became still. Bev was scared, but at this moment Bill was a rambling mess, and the group  _ needed  _ a new leader. When chaos struck, Bill hit it head-on and the Losers followed him single-file.

_ Now it’s my turn _ , she thought.

“Your turn for what?” Ben questioned, fright clinging to his words.  

_ It’s okay, guys. It’s just me: Bev.  _ Everybody in the room froze up, their heads moved loosely on their necks like loose joints. They looked everywhere but Bev, as if they were trying to find some speaker she had hidden in the room.

_ Look, I don’t know what’s happening. But we’ve dealt with weird shit before. We’ll deal with it again. Let’s just think this through…  _

_ (please no! The Shine! It hurts my eyes, NO!) _

_ Who was that?  _ This was Mike’s exploring voice. But it wasn’t his voice was it? It was his mind’s voice.

_ WHO  _ WAS _ THAT? _ , Mike repeated. His mouth didn’t move but his face was painted in panic and confusion.

_ What the fuck is going on?  _ Was all Bill could manage to  _ think _ .

_ (they can here me! They Shine! They Shine so brightly! It burns. IT BURNS) _

_ We have to calm down _ , Beverly thought. Her eyes observed each of the Losers. Eddie was curled up once again and Richie had slid into the recliner with him. Tearing up, Richie extended an arm around Eddie to console him. Eddie allowed it thankfully.

_ It’s It. _ It was Stan’s voice. But it their heads, they still couldn’t wrap their minds around it.  _ I just  _ know  _ it is. I have no fucki-- _

_ (AAAAAAAH! It’s blinding! AaaaahahAHAHA) _

That evil cackle they all knew so,  _ so  _ well filled their heads up like steam. It seeped through their brain and into their skull. It reverberated and echoed through their heads until it became unbearable.

_ (HAHAHAAHAHA) _

_ Shut it up, someone! Shut it the  _ fuck  _ up! _ Eddie cried, both in the Losers’ heads and silently in real life, tears streamed down his face. Richie embraced

_ (HAHAHAHAHAHA) _

him harder. 

_ Stop it! What do you want? Stop it!  _ Bev screamed in her mind. But the cackling continued, it grew and grew in volume and power. 

_ (HAHAHAHAHAHAH) _

It seemed that the echoes bouncing in their heads never stopped, but more laughing was added to it. Mike felt like his head was going to explode. 

Bill clapped his hands against his ears, but it did

_ (HAHAHAHAHA) _

nothing. He continued to grimace, his face twisting into a demeanor of pain and torture.

_ (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA) _

_ Please stop it. Please…  _ It was Eddie’s frail voice that whimpered this. He sounded defeated, as if he had surrendered to whatever force was currently abusing them so.  _ Please just make it stop… _ That was the final straw for Eddie, he had resigned completely to the ceaseless bombardment of that one fateful syllable.

Richie noticed instantly that Eddie, who had been curled under his own body, tense as a rock and shaking uncontrollably, had suddenly gone limp. Eddie’s eyes, which had been screwed shut, now fell loose; when Richie pushed an eyelid up in a flurry of panic, Eddie’s iris had risen and was now just a semicircle at the top of his eye.

_ Eddie! Eds! EDDIE! _ Richie was crying hard in real life now, hugging Eddie’s seemingly lifeless body close to him, as if his own body heat would resuscitate the man. Everyone else pivoted their heads to look at the two, fear on their faces, but the clownish snickering that filled their minds seemed to render them immobile.

_ Eddie! It’s not real!  _ Some of them cried, but it was no use; Eddie was gone. He had seen

_ (the deadlights) _

The cackling stopped, and now only that one word resonated through their skulls, it was lonely, really, that single word.

_ (the deadlights… the deadlights… the deadlights… the deadlights… the deadlights…) _

Richie was still sobbing over Eddie’s body like some cruel, modern incarnation of  _ La Pieta _ , with Eddie sprawled out on the recliner and Richie clutching him, soaking his face and neck and shirt with his pained tears.

_ Eddie, please. _

_ Eddie, wake up, Man. It’s stopped. _

_ Eddie. _

_ Eds…  _ Richie choked out. Bill seemed even more distraught than before, with his body hunched over itself and Bev poised over him, as if to protect him from some unseen assailant. 

_ Eddie, man,  _ Ben tried out, his voice like a single flickering candle in a snowstorm of

_ (the deadlights… the deadlights… the deadlights…) _

_ It’s going to win like this,  _ it was Bev’s strong, yet fear-marred voice that rung out now.  _ Bill, please say something, we can’t lose you too. _

_ WE HAVEN'T LOST EDS, BEV,  _ Richie’s voice was screaming with anguish, and even his perturbed, heaving breaths could be heard in the other Losers’ minds.

And then they realized it was not over. 

_ (the deadlights… the deadliGHTS… THE DEADLIGHTS… THE DEADLIGHTS…) _

Ben yelled in their heads, a fearful cry for help, but no one but the people in that room could hear him.  _ Someone help. Please _ .

And it was now that that one  _ awful  _ word was repeated so violently in Bev’s ears, that she too broke down and joined her friends in their helpless torment. It was unstoppable. Indomitable. There was nothing any of them could do. It seemed to shake the walls and vibrate the house, blurring their vision.

Richie was still sobbing over Eddie’s now-chilled body, and the other’s felt the pain of his loss in the pit of their guts like someone had driven a boiling spear into their stomach. But Richie suffered the worst. Soon, the grief and pain he felt becoming too great for even him, he slipped beyond his own grasp, and fell into the dreadful chant.

_ (THE DEADLIGHTS… THE DEADLIGHTS…) _

Bev snapped her head towards him as Richie’s body fell backwards onto the floor, a loud thud boomed in the room, which was silent besides this, and it flicked a switch within Bev.

_ Richie! _ she cried. She rushed to him and knelt beside his motionless body, his eyes were open and his irises had receded as far back into his head as they would go. The pale of his eyes  _ shined  _ like dainty crescent moons. 

She grabbed the sides of his face and shook him gently, trying to arouse his conscious. It was a fleeting attempt at a futile cause; soon she felt the drum of those horrid words

_ (THE DEADLIGHTS… THE DEADLIGHTS… THE DEADLIGHTS…) _

coil their intangible fingers around her. Around her mind. Then around her heart. Then her lungs. And then finally every vein in her body, clutching them like a bushel of flower stems. 

_ Please…  _ she tried, but no one answered. Mike had fallen quickly, the evil repetition snaking into his mind in a way that seduced him easily into some sort of comatose state. Ben was next, simply tuning limp, his mouth slightly ajar, without a word, he slipped into the comfort of silence so easily.

Bill was still hunched over on the chair, his fingers forever latched to the sides of his face, a look of torment plagued his expression. It would seem he had fallen long before.

And so Bev turned her unsure attention to Stan, who sat on the armchair rigidly. His knuckles were white as his hands clasped the edges of the chair’s arms, as if he was holding onto life itself. His face was paralyzed in the expression made right before screaming. But he was still there, she could tell by his eyes which were not yet glazed over.

_ I… this is what it wants…  _ he stammared.  _ It knows… that it’s weak… It knows that-- that we can beat it.  _ He let his words fall into the rhythm of the chanting.

_ (THE DEADLIGHTS… THE DEADLIGHTS… THE DEADLIGHTS…) _

_ It knows we can beat it so it’s hiding like a  _ coward, he spat out.  _ It’s weak and It  _ knows  _ that It will  _ lose.  _ We can talk like this… because we’re connected… it knows that means we can kill it. It’s-- It’s just… cheating… It’s chea--  _ His voiced and been strained and mutilated by the stress of the words, and finally they got to him. His hands relaxed their grip and Bev looked with horrified fascination as his whitened knuckles filled in back to their natural hue.

_ I can’t do this alone _ … she cried in her own mind.  _ I can’t _ … and soon she too was falling to the floor next to Richie. But she was stronger than the others, she knew she was. She had endured relentless, nonsensical, and unconditional mental oppression like this almost her entire life. She could hang on, she knew she could. But what that ended up meaning was curling into a fetal position on the floor and screaming in her mind, clawing at consciousness with the greatest desperation she had ever felt. 

_ Bill…  _ where her final words in that moment, even if they were in her head. Even if no one responded.

_ (THE DEADLIGHTS… THE DEAdlights… the deadlights…)  _

Then the room fell to silence gradually. No cries of pain. No yells for help. Even their collective mindspace was flooded with a beautiful tranquility.

_ (peace at last) _

There was a beautiful stillness and a calm equanimity in the room then. Whatever dark, looming force was perched over the house that night slowly slithered away like a shadow cowers from the oncoming dawn.

As if it was some receding darkness, it’s inexistent, eldritch tentacles detached from the house and snaked slowly away.

But one of those was caught by a tortured, but strong thought that grabbed It and began to pull It back towards the house. It screamed as It was dragged back towards the site of Its crime. It shrieked a frill, awful squeal that pierced the sky with a primal and startling power. It struggled greatly, trying to flee from this iron grip that It felt burning into It.

The darkness was in danger. Grave, mortal danger. It struggled and wriggled and writhed in an attempt to break free from the thought that held it back. It focused on it, that great, powerful thought that rivaled Its own might. It was taken aback when It focused on the thought and another other-dimensional screech passed through It’s intangible maw.

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts _ , those words boiled against Its skin and scorched Its mind.

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts _ . The next scream that passed Its lips was louder and more desperate. A cry for help. But no one heard It. It was alone.

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts aND STILL INSISTS HE SEES THE GHOSTS _ .

It was those horrible screams that violated and abused their minds that made them wake. First Bev, who came to in a shallow manner. At first, she could not see anything, for she was not strong enough to open her eyelids, and instead focused on the sounds in her mind. Behind those squawks and shrieks was a faint chant, and she lost hope immediately that she had hung on only to be greeted again with that awful chant that had subdued her previously.

But the longer she lay, and the harder she focused as her strength returned to her, flowing through her veins, she made out the chant better.

She didn’t know what it meant, this chorus about ghosts and fists and posts, but it filled her heart with the warmth of strength fueled by fury, and flooded her head with tranquility. Soon, those words overpowered the squeals of other-worldly pain.

In that noise she found the strength to flutter open her eyelids. The sight that met her was one she thought she would never forget.

In the ring of bodies that once lay dormant and static, there was some fidgeting, some minor movement. Some signs of opposed consciousness. And although this sight filled her with relief, her eyes did not linger over the bodies of her friends. Instead she stared at Bill’s body… 

Minutes before, Bill had folded himself into a protective position, balling himself as to shield himself from the attacks that abused his mind. As it got worse and louder and worse and louder, he pushed himself farther into his own body, tears dripping from his jaw and onto his own legs.

He couldn’t open his eyes, for the pain seared into his brain, but soon he felt lonely, as if all of his friends had upped and left. But they hadn’t, he knew that, they had disappeared. He hadn’t felt their presences recede slowly, as if they had walked away, but instead they had vanished, one after the other, and soon he was alone.

_ No! NO! _

He wept harder down, his whole body quivering. 

_ Please! Please don’t leave me. Please d-d-don’t l-l-l-leave m-me! _

The thought struck him. It struck him hard. Bill hadn’t ever before stuttered in his thoughts. That was his safe-haven. He remembered once upon a time, when he was a child, that he would have to force himself to think whatever he was going to say first, this way he would stutter less.

_ I n-n-never st-st-st-stuttered in m-my m-m-m-mind _ . 

This was the final offence.

_ I N-NEVER ST-ST-STUTTER IN M-MY MIND _ . 

Never before.

_ S-stop it! I N-N-NEVER ST-STUTTERED IN M-M-M-M-MY M-MIND! _

But he continued to.

_ He th-thrusts his f-f-fists against the p-posts and st-st-st-still insists he sees the g-ghosts. _

He gasped.

_ He th-thrusts his f-fists against the p-posts and st-still insists he sees the g-ghosts! _

Then, as if some angel had entered his mind and gifted him knowledge, he knew what to do. He focused the rage in his mind and body, the rage that hated his stuttering and the rage that hated It. And he let it fuel him, let it burn into energy. And with that energy he moved his lips. Barely, at first. But the more he did it the more power it mustered.

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

It was a calm, meek voice that reflected his hardly parting lips. He moved his mouth as if to speak, but the words birthed in his mind, not in his throat. 

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

And the more he repeated this prayer the stronger he became. So focused on his inner monologue, he did not notice what happened to his body in that time. But a now awoken Bev, whose eyes had just opened, saw it. And her face contorted into an expression of pure surprise.

Bill had, or perhaps another force had done this  _ to  _ Bill’s body, unfolded and now stood upright. His head was tilted halfway up, his eyes were open and staring, with their gorgeous blue hue, at the ceiling. His mouth flapped open and closed in an anguished scream, and it synced up perfectly with the chanting she heard in her head. 

At first her tortured mind thought that maybe Bill was standing on his chair, for he was much higher than his height. But she then noticed that the chair he had been sitting on was thrown askew before him on its side, as if when he shot up it was a sudden and violent movement.

Bill was floating two feet in the air. 

Bill was floating.

Two feet.

In the air.

And he was chanting like a madman with an agenda. It was like his head had a rope nailed into it that was holding him up, for his arms and legs hung down like a cadaver’s. If it wasn’t for that quickly moving mouth, Bev would have assumed an angel had visited and was taking him away.

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

The longer she listened to the repeating drum of Bill’s voice, the stronger she became, and soon the eyes of various other Losers flapped open like shutters and they stared with astounded horror at Bill’s motionless, yet oddly vital, form. 

Soon Bev felt the the grip that had once pulled her under to a place so dark and peaceful loosen enough for her to help Bill. She began to call out to him but thought better of it. She didn’t  _ want  _ to call out to Bill. She wanted to join him, so she did.

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

And again she said it, this time with more vigor and passion.

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts,  _ Bill echoed. And she knew that Bill was conscious because his speech became much more confident. And soon they sung a great ballad of spirit. 

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

And they kept chanting it like their lives, however marred and distorted from the past few minutes (or hours, she didn’t even know), depended on it. 

It seemed like forever they harmonized, appalling the creature which they held onto by their defiant words, they held onto and  _ tortured _ , before another voice joined theirs. 

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

Bev could not move her head, for she was too occupied by the ritual they had commenced, but she knew who it was, of course she did.

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

And suddenly the trio grew in power once more. And Bev saw her vision fade slightly, before it did, though, she saw the floor and the rest of Mike’s living room fall downwards, before it turned to black. She knew this is what Bill must see, and soon Stan would see it too when he became so confident in his words, and believed so fully what he was saying.

Forever they chanted, it would seem.

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

Then another joined them. This voice was deeper, and extremely recognizable. 

_ Loved ones die, and you have to move on.  _

If Bev was in any state to feel anything but the power that coursed through her body and then left as words, she would have felt a deep, pitiful sorrow for Mike. Instead she let her inner voice welcome him into their song.

_ Loved ones die, and you have to move on. _

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

And so rose their power. It squealed and writhed in wrath and anguish under the hearty grip of their thoughts. It’s skin was flayed by their words, and It’s eyes stung with their emotion, and It’s voice was drowned by theirs.

Ben’s eyes fluttered open and saw four of his friends hanging on some invisible thread from the ceiling. He opened his mouth to scream in fright once he had enough energy, but instead he decided against it. That’s  _ not  _ what he wanted to do. So instead he opened his mouth and mouthed out words that worked with the ones in his head.

_ Sometimes the world isn’t always planned _ . 

And his voice, much to his surprise, fit elegantly with the four others which drummed in his head. Somewhere far underneath, the chanting was the sounds of a dying beast, and soon he felt his own thoughts grip It and mar It and rip at Its flesh.

_ Sometimes the world isn’t always planned _ .

_ Loved ones die, and you have to move on. _

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

In a few indistinguishable moments, there were five in the air, floating easily and opposing the force of gravity.

A sixth was rising now too.

_ What I say doesn’t always match what I want to say _ .

And their power grew, and grew, and grew until it was almost too much for the sixth. It rippled around them and flew through their thoughts. They all knew it: they needed a seventh to close the circle.

But if they had been able to open their eyes, they would have seen Eddie, still sprawled on the recliner like a ragdoll, completely motionless.

_ What I say doesn’t always match what I want to say _ .

_ Sometimes the world isn’t always planned _ .

_ Loved ones die, and you have to move on. _

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

Their voices were still confident, even if their melody was incomplete, and they continued with, what seemed like, infinite vigor. 

_ What I say doesn’t always match what I want to say _ .

_ Sometimes the world isn’t always planned _ .

_ Loved ones die, and you have to move on. _

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

And again, and again, and again, and  _ again _ . But they still couldn’t finish It. Their thoughts might overpower Its, but they couldn’t beat It fully. Not like this. Not while the circle was incomplete. And so the Losers finally addressed Eddie’s absence, and altered their thought slightly.

_ Eddie, What I say doesn’t always match what I want to say _ .

_ Eddie, Sometimes the world isn’t always planned _ .

_ Eddie, Loved ones die, and you have to move on. _

_ Eddie, My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Eddie, Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ Eddie, He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

They felt the grasp of their words release the writhing form and instead gripped a smaller, more feeble frame. The evil presence saw Its chance and began to flee slowly, for now It was bruised and defaced. But It knew, and the Losers knew, that It would not get far. 

Their thoughts, however rash and pounded, reached to Eddie and cradled him in their comfortable familiarity. They felt his mind stir at first, barely moving, but approaching consciousness slowly, barely.

Then, when gentle compassion didn’t rouse Eddie, they took more desperate measures.  

_ Eddie, What I say doesn’t always match what I want to say _ .

_ Eddie, Sometimes the world isn’t always planned _ .

_ Eddie, Loved ones die, and you have to move on. _

_ Eddie, My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Eddie, Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ Eddie, He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

They grabbed Eddie and pulled him from the void. His mind ripped through some sturdy barrier and he reentered the mortal world with a distraught gasp. But he didn’t stop there. He had been carried upwards out of his comatose state and then continued to move upwards.

He looked horrified as his body relinquished its weight until he couldn’t feel anything under him at all. He tried to scream, but his mind, corrected him. That’s not what he wanted to do.

His body was yanked into an upright position by an invisible force, and angel, perhaps, and then his mouth opened, seemingly on its own accord.

_ No pills will dumb the pain of falling out of love. _

And then he rose up into a slot in the circle of floating bodies between Richie and Ben, their mouths still moved open and closed, but now all their heads were tilted and following Eddie’s ascent.

He blacked out, then.

_ No pills will dumb the pain of falling out of love. _

_ What I say doesn’t always match what I want to say _ .

_ Sometimes the world isn’t always planned _ .

_ Loved ones die, and you have to move on. _

_ My battle scars do not define me. _

_ Tom Rogan is a monster. _

_ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. _

And now their chorus was complete. Seven fields of thought converged into one grand chant. Together, they reached out and seized the vile being and began to now torture It more intensely, for they were complete. The circle was whole. 

It seemed to last for years, that final push, but in reality was almost instant, no more than a year-long second had passed before their unmitigated power vanquished the fiendish form. Suddenly It was gone. It seemed to just 

_ (you found your Shine…) _

dematerialized, as if the pressure 

_ (...you might think that makes you powerful…) _

that had It had been fighting off suddenly became

_ (...but you didn’t know what it meant to use it…) _

too great for It, and It merely

_ (...so foolish…) _

wished Itself

_ (...so naive...) _

away.

_ (... you will never feel that power again) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original ending that I planned... after not being satisfied with the ending, I decided a few days later to write two last chapters to conclude it... so if you like the dark ending stop reading here!!!


	20. Chapter 20

The divine force that had suspended their bodies retired in that moment, and they fell through those two feet of empty air. Bev and Bill fell almost on top of each other, speechless and afraid. Eddie plopped onto the recliner awkwardly, and next to him Richie hit the arm of the recliner and flew off of it onto the floor. Just like he had done earlier. Ben and Mike fell onto the couch at the same time, bending clumsily as they tried to gain their balance on the uneven surface. Stan crumpled to the floor next to the armchair, huffing out when his hands caught himself from banging his head. 

When they had all gotten their bearings, they looked around with a look of fear and loss at each other. They all traded eye-contact, as if reassuring themselves that these people around them were real. They remained like that for a while, hunched over on the floor, or gripping couches like ties to reality, and looking at one another with looks of pure,  _ childish _ fear.

Bev spoke first. No, she  _ thought  _ first.

_ What the fuck just happened. _

But no one heard, no one’s heads moved to hers, and no one acknowledge what she had directed at them, no one responded. Then she realized it was because no one  _ heard  _ her.

“What--  what was that?” Bev’s voice was a lot less steady than her thoughts had been. Fear bubbled out of her throat with them.

They turned their heads towards her, now. And she could read from their expressions that they  _ too  _ had just tried to speak-- to  _ Shine _ \-- to the others. But they couldn’t. None of them could.

“I-- I have… no  _ fucking  _ idea,” Richie splurted out, clutching his head where he had fallen on it  _ twice _ . “That shit was fucking  _ insane _ , though…” His face blossomed a wide smile. “Aye feel fookin’ high as a kite, mun!” he exclaimed in his English Lad voice. He had done cocaine nine or ten times over the last couple of years-- at parties, mostly; coke wasn’t something you wanted just lying around your house if you were a bigga-time disc jockey-- and the feel was something like that, but not exactly.

Bev looked next to Bill, who was just pulling himself up from the praise position he had been recovering in previously. They exchanged a knowing look that non-verbally spoke their concerns.

After she had checked the rest of them visually to make sure there weren’t any broken necks or fractured ribs, she locked eyes with Stan.

_ Stan knew things, right before I-- I… fell. _

“Stan…” He turned his head towards her. “What did we just do?” Stan, who had pulled himself onto the armchair, looked like he was trying to figure out a complicated math problem for a moment before he spoke. 

“I’m not sure… But I think I know some bits and pieces.” He inhaled shakily. Eddie lowered himself cautiously off of the recliner and sat cross-legged on the floor before Stan like a child at story-time.

“I remember a word…  _ Chüd _ . I don’t exactly remember what it means but--”

“It’s important,” Ben said. “Yeah, I think I remember. It was how we beat It last time. Chüd. I remember a little. It was something we read in the library, and it worked.”

A few moments passed slowly. Richie considered saying ‘Well, obviously not,’ but he decided against it, thinking the moment too somber for such a comment.

“I did it.” It was the first thing Bill had said since the…  _ incident _ . He had raised himself up onto the recliner and sat on it exhaustively.

“Did what?” Mike asked.

“The Ritual of Chüd. It’s how we beat It. But I did it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look.” Bill reached into the pocket of his pants and brought out his phone. “Shit, I think it cracked when I fell,” Bill sighed. He looked something up quickly on his browser and read aloud. “The Ritual of Chüd is an ancient (and fictitious) ritual used to vanquish evil spirits. Simply put, it involves one combatant mutually biting tongues with the demon and then commencing a battle of wills. In the oldest texts, the battle consisted of telling riddles or jokes back and forth until one of them couldn’t think of any more. The combatant that fails first has lost and is consequently destroyed.”

“Intense,” Richie commented.

“Hmm,” Bill agreed.

“So is that what that was?” Bev asked, staring into Bill’s eyes.

“I think so. The Ritual isn’t real, I think. But since we believed it, like kids do, it was real for us. I think.”

Everyone was silent again. They fidgeted with their hair, or glasses, or fingers before Bill spoke again. They snapped their heads back up to Big Bill.

“Last time it was only me that did it, I think because we believed in it then so it took less of us to get the job done. But we also only hurt it, so I don’t know.”

“This time it took more of us,” Mike observed.

“Because we’re not kids anymore,” Bev said.

“Because we weren’t close enough,” Richie tried.

“No.” It was Stan again. “We were. We were so close we were  _ connected _ . I know that.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I  _ mean _ ? Do you think any normal people could talk fucking  _ telepathically _ .” Stan was heated when he said this, his voice raising a little bit. But it was more fear and insecurity than anger, they all knew that well.

“Sorry--” he tried.

“He’s right. It said we  _ Shined _ . It said we found the way to do that. That means something about us being together triggered our ability to do it, I think,” Bill informed unsurely.

“But what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.” 

“I think it means we connected with our kid-selves…” It was Stan’s wavering voice. He seemed to be trying to look everywhere but at the other Losers.

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know, I just kind think that. If the reason we beat it last time was because we had a close relationship, and that hurt it, then maybe…  _ Shining _ … is like a reincarnation of that friendship.”

“This is some  _ weird _ -ass shit,” Mike decided, getting up from the floor and hobbling around the group, as if making sure his legs still worked. “Whatever it is, it said we can’t do it again… so why should we worry?”

“Because what if we didn’t kill it, Mike? What if…  _ the Shining _ … is the only way to beat it? And we just blew that chance,” pointed out Bill.

“Well, then, that means that it’s not our responsibility anymore. We made a promise twenty-seven years ago and we came back like it said. That was all we had to do.”

“How can you say that, Mike?” Bev cried out, her head spun with fatigue as she did.

“It’s just the  _ truth _ , Bev. Last time we hurt it badly and it went back into-- into… fucking hibernation or whatever. If that just happened again, then the next time  _ anyone  _ has a shot at killing It is in twenty-seven years. We’ll be like…  _ seventy _ … Bev!”

“Look, guys, it doesn’t matter,” Stan interjected. “We killed it, okay? It’s done. I know we did.”

“H-how do you know?” Bev tried.

“Because I…  _ felt  _ it die, I don’t know. Look, you guys can’t disagree with me. You  _ know _ you felt it die, or just disappear. That was different than last time…”

“I agree,” Ben confirmed.

“Same, that definitely felt like a kill,” Richie added, cocking and shooting a finger-gun. Eddie was now leaning his tired body against his in an attempt to hold himself up.

“I’m not sure…” It was Bill who proposed the first opposition. “We don’t know anything about It, and the writer part of me wants to point out how this is the perfect setup for a sequel…”

“You can’t compare your  _ books _ to a real life fucking monster, Bill,” Richie exclaimed, making Eddie move to accommodate his excited state. 

“I know I can’t but… like, how can we know if what we felt was It dying if we know nothing about It?”

“We don’t have to know anything about it,” Mike said rationally. “I can say Sonatina in G is my favorite piano piece without knowing how to play it.”

“Mike…” Bill couldn’t shake his apprehension. “I don’t  _ want  _ It to have survived. But we can’t just assume It’s dead without any sort of proof.”

“I agree with Bill. It isn’t fair to the hundreds--  _ thousands _ \-- of people It’s killed to dismiss it like this. We  _ have  _ to be sure,” said Stan.

“Yeah. Look guys, you  _ saw  _ me, okay? I fell first, I was the weak link--”

“Eddie--” Richie tried, but Eddie was adamant on getting this out.

“--I  _ was  _ the weak link. No one here wants to do this again less than  _ me _ . But if we’ve failed twice, then we owe it to the countless generations after us to not pay for our mistakes.”

“But, Eddie--”

“ _ No _ , Mike. Okay? You know how it felt that summer, to be fucking  _ hunted _ . Would you really wish that on any other kid?”

“Of course  _ not _ . But you guys don’t understand… we’re gonna be fucking  _ old _ , okay? We all almost died just then.” He pointed behind him as if that’s where it happened. “Do you think we can do any better in  _ another  _ twenty-seven years? I mean, there’s bound to be one of us  _ dead _ by then, right?”

“He has a point,” Ben, the voice of reason amongst them, said. “It’s not realistic, it’s either we come back and probably get killed brutally when we do it, after a  _ life _ of fighting this thing, or we hand down the torch.”

Stan seemed appalled by this.

“Hand down the  _ torch _ ?” he gasped. “You think we should dump this responsibility on some fucking kids that’ll be the right age in twenty-seven years?”

“That’s what happened to us, Stan,” Mike said calmly. “Look, It didn’t let us have kids because kids are more powerful, we could have used them against it, so we have to find another way. If we die in twenty-seven years without telling anyone else, then the next kids that have the responsibility next won’t even have a warning.”

“It’s true,” Ben said. “We can’t risk failing a final time…” 

After this, they sat in contemplative silence. Ben and Mike and Richie were all certain they couldn’t-- and shouldn’t-- come back. But Stan and Bill and Eddie were sure they had a responsibility to uphold. Then, as if they were on one wavelength, they turned to Bev, who was still sitting near Bill.

“Bev, what do you think?” Stan asked companionably. She hadn’t weighed in too much in the argument and seemed to be in deep thought the entire time.

“I don’t-- I don’t know, okay?” She looked at all of them individually, as if some secret code in their eyes would reveal what she should do. But there was just as much confusion in their irises as she suspected was in hers. 

“I don’t think we are able to fight this fight again. If It was right and it took away whatever our-- our  _ Shine _ is, and we’re right think that is what let us beat It, then we don’t have a chance. But I also think we  _ did  _ kill It. I think It is dead. This time for sure.”

“But we can’t be sure,” Bill egged on.

“That’s true. I think it’s a risk we have to make, however. It’s a hard decision, but I think we can all agree that this time felt different, more  _ definite _ , I guess, than last time.”

“So it’s just a matter of whether we trust our gut or not.”

“I think so.”


	21. Chapter 21

Epilogue

 

It took another day for any of them to feel comfortable with leaving. Soon after their decision was made, they had decided to retire for bed. As abnormal as the occurrences had been that evening, none of the Losers seemed to have major problems with sleeping. They all slept soundly and dreamt of… well… nothing at all, actually.

It was the sleep of the sleep deprived. Deep and dreamless.

Ben had returned to the apartment over the garage, his luggage was still sitting on the chair in the corner, with barely anything taken out of it. He had fallen asleep almost instantly. 

Bev and Richie walked in agreeable silence to the guesthouse in the warm and brisk air that lay flatly under the pale summer moon. They had gone to either’s beds with no more than a congenial ‘goodnight,’ and slept with nothing but darkness under their eyelids.

Mike had returned to his own room on the ground floor. Eddie had asked him briefly before turning for the stairs why he had chosen a room on the ground floor, seeing as how you were more likely to be murdered at night if your room was easily accessible. Mike had responded that it was a big house and if he slept down there he would never have to go upstairs. Still, Mike did not dream of axe-murderers or serial killers that night that might kill him. He dreamt of nothing at all.

Eddie collapsed on his bed and barely managed to crawl under the sheets before his vision faded to black and remained like that the entire night.

Bill and Stan shared a room again that night, no discussion had taken place concerning the decision, they had just auto-piloted there. Soon enough, however, they were both out cold, dreaming of empty rooms at night with no lights on and black ink.

The next morning was quick and not nearly as eventful as the previous. In fact, by noon, Ben and Bill were already packed and preparing to leave. They made the rounds, hugging and kissing goodbyes, explaining why they had to leave and such. No one discussed the fact that they couldn’t really remember what had happened the night before.

Then Richie and Eddie left. It would seem that at some point that morning the two had discussed Eddie’s plan, as now he was separated from Myra and had no place to go back to. It was her house and her limo company, after all. Richie offered him a haven in his own home in Los Angeles for as long as he wanted, possibly until he got back on his feet, possibly forever (but this was just Eddie’s idea, however his fading memory of Richie would make that hard). And soon they had left, telling the rest that they had to leave early to ensure they had time to return the rental car before the flight they had booked. No one discussed the fact that they couldn’t really remember what had happened the night before.

Then sat Bev, Mike, and Stan in that now-familiar dining room with the remnants of a decent breakfast either pushed in front of them or piled on the counters in the kitchen.

Mike explained to them that he had to go to work to make sure the library was still functional after his two day absence. And he left, saying the other two could stay for as long as they wanted, but he still said an emotional goodbye, knowing they would be gone hours before he arrived again. No one discussed the fact that they couldn’t really remember what had happened the night before.

And then there were two. Just Stan and Bev. Bev, who could not remember what city Stan lived in, and Stan, who could not remember how Bev got the bruise that he saw peeking out of the collar of her blouse. But still, they did not discuss the fact that they couldn’t really remember what had happened the night before.

“I have to go.”

“Yeah? So do I.”

“Do you want a ride to the airport?”

“I think I’ll take the train, thank you.”

And like that they left. They did not discuss the fact that they couldn’t really remember what had happened the night before.

Richie and Eddie left for Los Angeles that afternoon and arrived at Richie’s flat in the late afternoon. Eddie spent the night in Richie’s spare room but he didn’t unpack, for even that night he could barely remember Richie’s last name. By the time he woke, he had awaken in a stranger’s bed. Richie woke up to a stranger in his house that he inexplicably felt comfortable around. Eddie departed even before breakfast and booked a last-minute flight back to the east coast. He was in New York City by the time Richie was going to bed again; he didn’t even remember that Eddie had been in his house that day at all. Eddie got a job at his wife’s limo company and soon they fell back in love. Richie died without a serious partner in his late life.

Ben returned to the midwest and put his house on the market the very next day. When looking for a new city in which to reside, he was inexplicably drawn to Portland, Maine. Within the month, he had bought a large, traditional New-England home in the city. When he finally forgot where he had been those two days, it definitely did not take long, he got a flood of requests for potential projects to undertake. He was extremely busy for the next three decades of his life before he retired young, moving to Honolulu and dying there years and years later.

Bill continued to write novels of the same theme and caliber of his previous. They were all grotesque horror-stories with young protagonists struggling with an otherworldly foe. He fell in love soon with another author and they bought a large chateau outside of Manchester and never left again. He had forgotten the six names, of which he had been reminded on those two days, easily within the week. He didn’t know why, however, he was so drawn to naming the protagonist of his next book Bev.

Stan returned to Atlanta without anybody questioning where he had been, was the CEO after all. He lived a prosperous young life (like the rest of them), and later down the line would start a non-profit charity helping young, suicidal kids start off on a new foot. It was an extremely successful endeavour, more so than his accounting company had been. As he was doing this, however, he never remembered anything about the two days that seemed to be blacked out of his memory.

Bev returned to Chicago carefully, knowing somewhere in the city and in her company a monster hid. A friend of her’s, when she had returned, told her that Tom had left to find her after her eventful exit and hadn’t yet returned. Possibly he had arrived in that town she had been in (she couldn’t remember the name), and she missed him by bare hours. She felt a twang of worry for someone she had left in that town, but she couldn’t remember who she had left there, so it did not bother her for long. When Tom Rogan arrived again in Chicago, he was unemployed, had a divorce filed against him (as well as a restraining order), and soon would not have his own home. Bev barely wondered where she ascertained the confidence to finally stand up to her horribly oppressive monster of a husband.

Mike remembered the others far longer than they remembered him. But soon his memory began to fade, and he took that as a sign. Soon he left Derry, sold his house (much more quickly than the previous owner had, thankfully), and moved south to the warmer climates of North Carolina. After the two fateful days the weight in his heart, that had sat there since he had lost his wife and daughter, seemed to melt. It took years and years, but eventually he found love in another woman and another place, but the same job. He started his own used-book store, and a few years later, his own library.

In the end, no one discussed the fact that they couldn’t really remember what had happened the night before. And maybe they would never, for the seven had risen as friends, and then eight fell as strangers.

 

The End?


End file.
